


The One Who Will Live On

by queenofkadara



Series: Vir'Abelasan: Abelas & Athera Lavellan [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Bumbling da'len tries to make friends with cranky ha'hren, Canon Divergence - Abelas shows up at Skyhold, Comedy & Tragedy, Comedy mostly thanks to Varric, Enemies to Lovers, F/M, Sad Ending, Smut, Solas is an inadvertent and very apologetic matchmaker
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-01
Updated: 2018-09-29
Packaged: 2019-06-20 07:35:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,155
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15529326
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queenofkadara/pseuds/queenofkadara
Summary: When Abelas shows up at Skyhold, the last thing he wants is to work with a shem.Athera Lavellan is young and clueless. She took his sacred duty when she drank from the Vir’Abelasan. She appears in the Fade when he’s just trying to enjoy some peace and quiet.When Abelas shows up at Skyhold, the last thing he expects is to fall for a shem. Unfortunately for them both, that’s exactly what happens.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I have run through the fields of pain and sighs  
> I have fought to see the other side
> 
> I am the one who can recount what we've lost  
> I am the one  
> Who will live on
> 
> \- ["I Am The One", DA:I soundtrack](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=__hStdzoYVk)

“I had hoped you would come,” a familiar voice said. 

Abelas pursed his lips in displeasure as a hooded figure drew up beside him. He shook his head slightly as he gazed at the strange banners flying from the ramparts of Tarasyl'an Te'las. The titanic castle had once been the proud fortress of Mythal’s staunchest supporters. Now, its occupants seemed little more than _naslahna’miol_ crawling along its walls, doing their best to rebuild something that their brutish hands could never restore. 

“You surrendered your stronghold to these shemlen,” he said. 

It was a statement, not a question, but Fen’Harel nodded his head all the same. “The leader of their organization, the Inquisitor, has been quite effective so far. Surprisingly so, if truth be told. Assisting her in her goals has been an efficient way of achieving my own. Gifting the castle to these people was little sacrifice to me, but it has given them much.” He paused, then added, “It has given them hope that the world can be better.”

Abelas huffed a quiet breath through his nose. “You sound like you admire them.”

Fen’Harel turned slowly to look at him, and Abelas instinctively dropped his gaze at the expression on the Dread Wolf’s face. “I take no joy in what is to come,” he said quietly. “I do not resent them their lives here, and nor should you. It should never have been this way, but that is not their fault.” 

Abelas was silent, and Fen’Harel eventually turned back to face the castle. The wind whipped their cloaks, and clouds chased across the sky with a swirling bluster of snow as they gazed at the ancient stronghold. 

Fen’Harel finally sighed and turned to face him again. “I assumed you had come to join my efforts. Was I incorrect?”

Abelas pursed his lips again, then shook his head. “No. I serve Mythal still. If your plans honour her, then I would assist.” 

Fen’Harel was silent for a long moment. Then finally he nodded. “Excellent,” he said. “Then you will join us at Tarasyl'an Te’las. There is someone you should meet in a less… antagonistic capacity.”

Abelas frowned as he fell into step beside Fen’Harel on the path back to the castle. “How long will this association with the shemlen continue?”

“As long as it must, I’m afraid,” he replied. His response was mild, but his tone was firm enough for Abelas to hold back any further criticisms. In a gentler tone, Fen’Harel continued, “I would suggest you resist the urge to insult the Inquisitor while we are here. She is unlike the other quickling elves that you have seen. She has been quite open to my teachings, in fact. I will admit to finding her quite impressive.” 

“You have been sharing our knowledge with her?” Abelas demanded, then immediately closed his mouth when Fen’Harel stopped in his tracks to look at him.

Abelas stopped as well and instinctively lowered his head in deference, but the expected rebuke did not come. Instead, to his surprise, the Dread Wolf reached out and placed one hand on his shoulder. “You are angry, I know,” he said softly. “It distresses me to think what you have dealt with during your brief but brutal awakenings. But I see no harm in responding to a da’len’s thirst for knowledge. Up to a certain point, of course. Curiosity is not a virtue that should be punished.”

“It is not the virtue for which you are known, ha’hren,” Abelas replied.

Fen’Harel smiled, but the smile was sad. “I am not the spirit I once was,” he said. “And neither are you.” The rebel leader gazed at him until he sighed and nodded.

Fen’Harel squeezed his shoulder once more. “Come,” he said, then continued along the path. “And remember, while we remain among these people: call me Solas.” 

*****************

Athera admired the clouds scudding across the evening sky as she strolled to the tavern. She’d taken Bull’s advice to heart, and she did her best to make time for chatting with the various occupants of the tavern multiple times a week. Of course, it was no hardship for her to go for a drink with friends under the guise of work. 

Varric’s voice hailed to her as she strolled past the infirmary toward the stairs. “Hey, Lavellan! You’re going to want to see this.” 

He sounded more sardonic than usual, and with a small jolt of trepidation, Athera trotted over to join him and the two guards on post at the main gates. “What’s going on? I don’t think I can take many more…” 

She trailed off in utter shock as she spotted Solas strolling along the bridge, accompanied by the last person she’d expected to see again. “Mythal’s mercy. Is that… Abelas?”

Varric’s eyebrows were high on his forehead as they watched the two elves approach. “We don’t know any other elves with armour like that,” he said. He leaned in a little closer and muttered, “Don’t you think it, you know... chafes?” 

Athera snorted and kicked his foot lightly, but she couldn’t get over the shock of the sight before her. What was Abelas doing here? Their last interaction at the Well of Sorrows had been polite, but only just. _No thanks to him,_ she thought resentfully. His attitude toward her and the Dalish was… displeasing, to say the least, but Athera had forced herself to bear his insults for the sake of the mission. 

She crossed her arms defensively as Abelas and Solas drew near. “Inquisitor,” Solas said with a nod. “No introductions are necessary, I know, but I might suggest a fresh start. Abelas comes to offer his assistance to the Inquisition.” 

“Does he, now?” Varric said, his voice thick with curiosity. Athera could practically see the story writing itself behind his clever eyes. 

She kicked his foot again, then gazed suspiciously at Abelas. “How did you find us?” she asked. 

Solas opened his mouth to reply, but Abelas spoke first. “Tarasyl'an Te'las is a place of ancient magic,” he said. “Those familiar with _our_ ways do not require a guide to find this place.” 

His voice held the faintest sneer of disdain, and Athera recoiled slightly and shot an apologetic-looking Solas a very pointed look. “He’s here to help, you said?” she asked. She didn’t bother to filter the skepticism from her voice.

“He is one of the ancient elvhen, lethallan,” Solas said, and Athera tried to ignore the wheedling note in his calm voice. “Remember, the orb that Corypheus holds is an old and powerful relic of our people. Abelas may be able to tell us how Corypheus survived its blast, and perhaps how to safely deactivate it.” He looked askance at Abelas. 

Abelas pursed his lips. “Yes,” he said finally. “I will tell Solas everything I know about the orb. And other… ancient elvhen magic.” 

Athera stared flatly at Abelas for another long moment, and the Sentinel stared back just as neutrally. She exhaled heavily and glanced at Solas, who raised his eyebrows slightly. The word _please_ might as well have been tattooed across his bald forehead. 

She finally uncrossed her arms and managed to resist rolling her eyes out of sheer effort of will. “Fine,” she said. “Abelas, welcome to Skyhold. Solas, if you can get our guest settled in, I would appreciate it.” 

“Thank you, Inquisitor,” Solas said, and Athera managed a tight smile before tugging Varric’s sleeve and walking away toward the tavern.

Varric fell into step beside her. “Remember when I said that shit gets weird around you?” he said. “Well, shit just got weirder.” 

Athera finally rolled her eyes. “I know,” she groaned. “Now I have to make nice with someone who’s surely going to continue to insult me in my own castle.” 

He chuckled. “An old-as-dirt elf who insults you for existing. Be careful you don’t fall for him.”

Athera snorted and elbowed him in the head. “You wish, if only to add colour to your so-called novel,” she taunted. “Don’t worry, Varric. There’s a Chantry sister’s chance in the Fade of me and Abelas even becoming friends.”

“I dunno, your Worshipfulness,” Varric said with mock-thoughtfulness as the entered the tavern. “Sounds like you’re tempting fate. You did run into a ghost or spirit or whatever of Divine Justinia in the Fade, after all.” 

Athera rolled her eyes again and shoved the chortling dwarf in the back. “Oh, just go get us a flagon of beer, won’t you? Make yourself useful.” She sat at a table toward the back of the tavern, then brooded a bit about their new and somewhat unwelcome guest.

 _Another person to sneer insults at me,_ she thought wearily. It was hard enough to be a Dalish polytheistic elven Inquisitor who allegedly worked in conjunction with the Chantry. Now she had to suffer further insults from one of her own kind? 

_But he doesn’t even consider me to be his own kind,_ she thought with an embarrassing little pang of hurt. That was probably the thing that bothered her the most. Solas had been snooty about the Dalish at first, with his whole raised-in-isolation thing, but he’d softened over time, and she knew he now considered her as good a friend she considered him. But to Abelas, she wasn’t even the same species. 

_I don’t have to like someone to work with them,_ she reminded herself firmly. Solas, as usual, had a point; it would be good to have someone who could help him work on unravelling Corypheus’s stolen magic. 

In the meantime, she would just avoid Abelas as much as possible. 

********************  
Abelas pushed his hood back and took a deep, restorative breath. He ran a weary hand over the elaborate braid that coursed down his back. His thumb traced absently over the vallaslin that flowed along the shaven sides of his scalp. The magic hummed reassuringly beneath his fingertips, and he drew another breath of relief at the familiarity of it. The vallaslin felt dead somehow in the tranquil waking world, but here in the Fade, magic felt more as it should. 

_And it will be better still when Fen’Harel has set this all to rights,_ he thought as he looked around at the castle. Wisps floated over the oldest stones of Tarasyl'an Te’las, reminders of emotions and memories long past, and Abelas drew comfort from their faintly luminescent forms as he strolled toward the nearest stairs. 

He made his way up, vaguely thinking of visiting the northeast tower, but he stopped short when he reached the top of the ramparts. A slender figure was already there, her elbows resting comfortably on the wall, her long dark hair lifting slightly as though she was underwater. 

Abelas frowned. It had to be an illusion: a construct of his own annoyance, frustration given form as he walked the Fade. It wasn’t possible that she was actually here. 

He approached the illusion cautiously, his hand already raised to banish it from the dreaming so he could continue to enjoy the Fade in peace. But as he drew close, she turned. Her ice-grey eyes widened in alarm as he recognized him, and she stumbled back most convincingly. 

Abelas gaped at her, his hand frozen in mid-air. It couldn’t be a construct. Constructs didn’t react that way. “What are you doing here?” he demanded. 

The Inquisitor’s eyebrows shot up, then down into a scowl. “Excuse me? This is _my_ dream. What are _you_ doing here?” 

Abelas frowned in turn as he lowered his hand. “Dreams do not belong to anyone,” he informed her haughtily. “Not that you would be expected to know that.” He turned away from her to look over the ramparts with a distinct sense of disgruntlement. It hardly seemed fair that a shemlen was able to intrude in a realm they had no business visiting. 

“How did you get here?” he asked again.

Her jaw clenched. “I’ve physically been in the Fade, you know,” she snapped. “Walked around there with my own two ‘shemlen’ feet. Showing up in Skyhold in a dream is a piece of cake compared to that.” 

He gazed at her in shock. This quickling had set foot in the Fade? Preposterous. 

Then he frowned more deeply as he considered her words. “Cake?” he said. “What is that? Some sort of trick?” Was that how she was intruding in places she had no business being?

The Inquisitor stared at him carefully for a long moment. Then the corner of her lips lifted slightly. “Are you kidding?”

Abelas scowled at her in mistrustful silence, and the little half-smile on her lips broadened until it replaced the anger in her face. She leaned against the ramparts again, looking more at ease. “Cake is a kind of food,” she explained. “It’s a sweet treat. Made with flour and sugar and eggs, among other things. Solas likes the little frilly ones.” She chuckled, then sobered when she noticed that he was still scowling. “I’m not sure what the elvhen word would be,” she said more seriously. “Maybe… um… siugen… _siugen’bradh?_ ”

Suddenly he understood what she meant, despite her atrocious accent. “Ah,” he said. 

They stood in silence for another long, awkward moment, and Abelas watched the twisting ropes of her hair as they floated lightly around her shoulders and neck. She didn’t seem to notice the odd activity of her hair, and he wondered with a mixture of melancholy and resentment if she understood the significance of it. 

Finally he broke the silence with another grudging question. “What does _siugen’bradh_ have to do with walking in the Fade?”

She smiled again, a broad grin that creased the tendrils of Sylaise’s vallaslin around her left eye. “Nothing,” she replied. “It was a stupid turn of phrase. Don’t worry about it.” She chuckled to herself, then sighed and closed her eyes, her smile still broad on her lips.

Abelas pressed his lips together in displeasure, but he couldn’t look away from her as her relaxed expression gradually faded to a more serious one. 

A sudden ripple ran across her hair from root to tip, and she tilted her head back slightly. Abelas watched avidly as the strands of her hair twisted and writhed slowly in the air. The whispers were audible now, emanating through her hair like a breeze flowing through leaves, and as the whispers grew louder, her lips parted slightly and her brows furrowed with concentration. 

Eventually she lifted one hand to her forehead, and the odd tension lifting her hair lessened abruptly. The chestnut waves relaxed around her shoulders, and she inhaled deeply and opened her eyes. 

Abelas stared at her. Her expression was utterly serious now, a kind of world-weary sadness that seemed incongruous on her childlike face. 

“I’m sorry,” she said suddenly. 

He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Why?” 

She bit her full lower lip before replying. “The Vir’Abelasan,” she said quietly. “I am truly sorry that I had to drink from it. I didn’t mean to take your heritage from you. I… You don’t think so, I know, but it’s my heritage too. It seems… It’s as Morrigan said. Another mystery lost.” 

Abelas continued to stare at her, stunned and uncertain how to respond. She gazed at him for another long moment, then finally sighed and pushed away from the ramparts. “I’ll let you enjoy the view in peace,” she said quietly. “See you later, Abelas.”

She trudged away toward the stairs, her hair still floating behind her with slightly less gravity than its length truly warranted. He watched as she disappeared around the corner, then he leaned against the ramparts in an unconscious imitation of her earlier pose. 

He looked out toward the stars, shimmering as they were with wraiths and spirits floating through the sky. It was a pleasant and comforting sight, a small hint of home, but he couldn’t focus. Spirits might be dancing across the sky, but dark and winding chestnut strands were the sight that danced through his mind. 

_Athera,_ he thought idly to himself. ‘Part of a dream,’ she was called. He huffed softly to himself. A relatively apt name, all things considered. He wondered if these shemlen elves knew the more metaphorical meaning of the word. 

Whether they did or not, it seemed that this Inquisitor would live up to that meaning as well.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Housekeeping:  
> \- This will be about 6-7 chapters, I think? I'm hoping to have it done by the end of this month; end of September at the latest.  
> \- Eventual smut. I'll change the rating when that happens.  
> \- Eventual sadness too. Booohooo TT^TT  
> \- I'm [Pikapeppa on Tumblr,](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/) if you want to drop in and say hi! :)


	2. Chapter 2

“I need to talk to you,” Athera hissed, then grabbed Varric’s elbow and hauled him out towards the stairs. 

Her story-spinning friend stumbled in surprise before quickening his step to catch up with her. “What’s going on? Whose castle have you stolen this time?”

“Ha ha,” she deadpanned. She glanced around the courtyard, then jerked her chin toward the west-facing battlements before taking the stairs two at a time. 

She waited impatiently for a huffing Varric to join her, then sat on the ground and looked up at him. “I had a dream about Abelas,” she blurted.

Varric instantly turned on his heel. “Okay, it’s been fun. I’ll see you later.”

“ _No,_ not like that, you idiot,” she snapped. “He - I - he showed up and got mad at me, then I got mad at him. Then there was something about cake. He didn’t know what cake was. And then…” She clutched her face in her hands, then ran her hand along her head and tugged anxiously at her bun. “I don’t really know. I suddenly felt bad for him even though he’s such a… not-nice person. Then I woke up.” She looked up at Varric.

Varric looked down at her.

They stared at each other in nonplussed silence for a long, awkward minute. Then Varric shrugged helplessly. “What do you want me to say?” 

“I don’t know!” Athera whined. “What should I do? Should I say anything to him about it? Solas says dreams are more than they seem. What if he really was in my dream and now he just thinks I’m a cake-obsessed angry shem?”

Varric shrugged again, but a slow smile tugged the corner of his lips. “There are worse first impressions. Well, second impressions. Okay, third.” He tucked his hands in his pockets and leaned against the battlements. “I think you should bring him some cake.”

Athera huffed in disgust and shoved the chortling dwarf. “Gods above, you’re no help. Why did I let you join my Inquisition again?”

“Entertainment value, I think,” Varric said. He patted Athera amicably on the head, then headed back toward the stairs. “Let me know what happens. I’ll be taking notes for my book.”

“Don’t you dare,” she yelled at his departing back. She smirked at his casual wave, then leaned back against the battlements with a sigh. 

All tomfoolery aside, Athera genuinely didn’t know what to do. She never used to think much about dreams beyond being amused at how vivid they sometimes were, but ever since Solas had taken her to Haven that one time, she treated her dreams with much more gravitas than before. 

She closed her eyes for a moment and savoured the cool mountain breeze on her face as she considered what to do. But as soon as she began to relax, the whispers grew louder in her mind. 

She sighed again and pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. The voices of the Vir’Abelasan were fickle; they often hid from her when she had specific questions in mind, and they seemed to assail her most readily when she was asleep. She never understood more than an impression of what they said: pictures, flashes of memory spinning across her mind’s eye, the odd phrase here and there that sprang to her lips without her explicit knowledge. But it was hard to glean more than that from the Sentinels’ collective memories when her ancient Elvhen was so shoddy. 

The voices slid through her mind, sinuous and smooth and dark, and Athera leaned her head back against the battlements for a brief moment. Then she took a deep breath and mentally shunted the voices aside. She had more pressing things to worry about; they were set to check out a Venatori presence in the Hissing Wastes tomorrow, and she needed to fuss around with Josie and Leliana making sure everything would be okay while she and the others were gone. 

And in the meantime, she had to make sure their prickly new guest wasn’t so offended by her dream behaviour that he decided to up and leave without telling Solas anything helpful.

She sighed and pushed herself to her feet. “I’m the Inquisitor. I’m a peacemaker,” she muttered in an attempt to pep herself up. “If I can’t make peace with an ancient cranky elf, then I don’t deserve my title.” Never mind that it was a title she still didn’t think she deserved in the first place. 

She pushed the insecure thought away as she trudged down the stairs. There was no time to mope around questioning herself now. She smoothed a hand over her hair, then headed toward the great hall. 

****************

“Solas? Abelas? Am I interrupting?”

Abelas’s shoulders tensed at the sound of Athera’s voice, and he grudgingly turned away from Solas’s desk to face her.

She stood in the doorway with a small box in her hands. Her pale grey eyes were wide, and there was something about her innocent posture that absolutely screamed _da’len_.

He frowned, but Solas straightened with a small smile. “Ah, Inquisitor. Please, come in. What brings you to my study?”

She tentatively entered the study. “I, um, I brought something for… for Abelas, actually.”

Abelas watched her suspiciously as she drew close. Her long dark hair was bundled at the back of her neck, and he couldn’t help but stare for a moment at the stillness of the shiny strands.

She caught his eye and blushed, then thrust the small box toward him. “Here,” she blurted. “It’s a present.”

He held the box dumbly for a moment, and eventually she smiled. “Well, go on. Open it.”

Slowly and cautiously, he opened the box. A sweet smell wafted from it, and inside were eight small square objects, variably white or pale pink in colour, each with a tiny flower on top. 

Utterly nonplussed, Abelas stared at the contents of the box for a long moment. To his right, Solas let out a tiny cough, then said, “Orlesian cakes. That’s very kind of you, Athera.”

_Cakes?_ Abelas thought in sudden consternation. Did this mean she remembered their encounter in the Fade last night? He darted a look at her, and her already-pink cheeks reddened further in a clear confirmation of his suspicions. 

She tugged awkwardly at her bound-up hair. “Just a welcome-to-the-castle thing, you know,” she babbled. “Um, I, er, what were you talking about when I interrupted?” 

Abelas stood stock-still with the small box in his hands as Solas ushered the Inquisitor closer to the table. “I was telling Abelas about the ancient wards we’ve been finding. If the signature of energies across the wards can be coordinated properly, I believe the strength of the Veil across all of Thedas can be measured with impeccable accuracy, and Abelas agrees. We may be able to learn more about where the tears will erupt.” 

Athera brightened. “Interesting!” she said. “And if you figure out where the tears can form, perhaps we can figure out how to strengthen the Veil before they occur. Is there anything I can do to help?” 

Abelas stared at her in frank surprise. Solas had told him that she was more adept in martial arts than magic, but her interest in the technicalities of the Fade seemed to exceed his own. 

Solas, on the other hand, was clearly accustomed to the young woman’s fascination. “Certainly,” he said. “In fact, we were wondering if we might ask a favour. There may be more tomes about elvhen magic in that small library you found in Skyhold’s underbelly. Might Abelas have your leave to investigate the library for further information?”

“Of course,” she said. She turned to look up at him with those impossibly wide grey eyes. “I can show you, if you like.” 

“I know where the library is,” he snapped. 

Her eyes widened briefly before she dropped her gaze and shrugged. “Right. I guess you’ve been here before. Well. I’ll… I’ll leave you to your work, then.” She turned and left the rotunda without looking at him or Solas.

As soon as she was gone, Solas sighed. “Ever lacking in social graces, lethallin.” He selected a cake from the box in Abelas’s hands and took a delicate bite. 

“I saw her in the Fade last night,” Abelas complained. “If the Veil keeps… certain entities in, should it not be able to keep these people out as well?” 

Solas sighed again, more heavily this time. “It is not that simple,” he said softly. “I am learning more every day about the complexities of… what was wrought, and how we are all affected by it. As you now know, the people here can slip into the Fade, but they are not very good at controlling their presence there. The Inquisitor is better than most,” he added. “Surprisingly so, considering that she is not a mage.” He cleared his throat and rubbed his scalp, then gestured to the box that Abelas was still holding. “Come. Try one of these cakes. They are quite good.” 

Abelas scowled at the box, then finally lifted a cake and took a small bite. The small confection was moist and dense, and the pink icing was slightly chewy with a faint taste of fruit. He chewed it cautiously, then swallowed. 

He glanced over to find Solas watching him with expectantly raised eyebrows. Abelas shrugged bad-temperedly, and Solas shot him a tiny half-smile before gesturing to the papers on his desk. “Shall we continue with this?”

Abelas nodded, then leaned over the table to look at the spots that Solas had marked on the map. 

A fruity taste lingered at the back of his tongue, and a brief image of floating chestnut hair wafted across his mind. He scowled and pushed the thought aside. 

Then he surreptitiously popped the rest of the tiny cake into his mouth. 

*******************

That night as he made his way through the courtyard, he wasn’t surprised to find her there.

Her loose hair drifted peacefully around her shoulders as she flung knives at a practice target, and Abelas watched from a distance for a few moments. He could admit that her technique was excellent, at least with a stationary target. He wondered if her aim was as precise when her prey was on the move. 

Finally Athera turned and caught sight of him. She folded her arms and glared, but the effect of her anger was somewhat mitigated by the tendrils of hair floating softly across her collarbones. 

“What?” she snapped. “Are you going to get mad at me again for being someplace I have no choice about being? Listen, if I could avoid you in the Fade I would, but I don’t really have much choice about this. Sometimes I get plonked down in Skyhold when I sleep, and that’s just the way it is. _You_ should leave if my presence is so objectionable to you.” She shoved her drifting hair impatiently away from her shoulders, then stormed past him. 

He studied the indignant line of her spine as she strode past, then spoke. “The cakes were good.”

She stopped suddenly, then turned slowly to look at him. “You… you liked the cakes?”

He folded his arms, then nodded once. “Yes, I did.”

She studied him carefully for a moment, then smiled slightly. “You didn’t share with Solas, did you?”

“He helped himself,” Abelas replied, and Athera’s tiny smile spread across her face. She threw her head back and laughed, and the cloud of her hair rippled gracefully with the movement. “Never let Solas help himself to sugary treats,” she said. “That man has a wicked sweet tooth. I think it’s his only vice.” 

Abelas smirked. A sudden memory came to his mind, a memory of a younger elf with long dreadlocks along the length of his scalp and a platter of _siugen’bradh_ that disappeared in the blink of an eye. 

He looked up at Athera to find her watching him, her mirth-filled face curious and her big grey eyes twinkling. The story of Fen’Harel sat at the tip of his tongue, but he bit it back; she was the last person who could know this tale.

The silence stretched between them, and he watched with an odd pang as the humour melted from her face, leaving uncertainty behind. She rubbed her arm nervously and dropped her eyes to the ground.

Abelas studied her as she idly toed the grass with one bare foot. Her hair was a constant distraction, twisting and floating across her bare shoulders and smoothing across the column of her neck. Eventually her eyes drifted shut. She tilted her head back again with a sigh, and Abelas watched the wavelike movements of her hair with a faint ache in his chest. 

A long moment later, she opened her eyes and frowned. Self-consciously she smoothed a hand over her hair. “What?”

He swallowed the lump of grief in his throat and gestured toward the drifting chestnut cloud. “Do they bother you? The voices?”

Her eyes widened, but then she pursed her lips slightly in thought, and Abelas waited as she carefully gathered her hair in her hands and pulled it over her left shoulder. “I don’t know,” she said finally. “I suppose the mystery of them bothers me more than anything else. I don’t understand most of what they’re trying to say.” She shot him an apologetic look. “My ancient Elvhen is extremely rusty, I’m afraid.” 

Abelas nodded - he had assumed as much - and she sighed before releasing her hair. It immediately began to float again, the tidy tail drifting into lazily tendrils, but Athera ignored it as she continued to speak. “I don’t want to press too hard to understand, though,” she said. “Solas was so angry when I drank from the Well. I didn’t realize he was so… I don’t know. Concerned about Mythal, I suppose. But I don’t take his worries lightly. So I’m trying not to sink too far into the whispers. They’re especially strong here in the Fade. Well, I guess you know that.” She gestured vaguely at her floating hair, and Abelas nodded again.

They stood in silence for a time, then Athera spoke again. “I really am sorry, you know. I honestly wouldn’t have drunk from the Well if there was any other choice.” Her gaze traced carefully over his vallaslin before returning to his eyes. “Duty calls. Sometimes what it calls for is… ugly. Uglier than I ever imagined, really.” 

She took a deep breath, and Abelas felt somehow paralyzed as he stared at her. An odd sense of vertigo was lifting his mind, a feeling of familiarity and strangeness all at once. She lifted her gaze to his face again, and another odd pang struck his chest at the melancholy in her expression. At this moment, it was hard to reconcile her with the chipper da’len who had shoved a box of cakes into his hands that afternoon.

She shrugged. “I’m going to see if I can get to the tavern,” she said. “Maybe the drinks will be free since I’m dreaming.” She offered him a weak half-smile and turned away.

He cleared his throat surreptitiously. “Thank you,” he said. “For the cakes.”

She looked back at him once more, and a strand of hair undulated across her cheekbone. “You’re welcome,” she whispered. 

Her eyes were so clear, like looking into a perfect mirror. He could feel himself being drawn into their piercing clarity, and for a moment it was as though he was standing at the edge of the Vir’Abelasan itself. 

He took a step back. He nodded to the Inquisitor once more, then turned on his heel and stepped out of the Fade.


	3. Chapter 3

Athera hopped on one foot as she poured the sand out of her boot - how in the Dread Wolf’s name the sand got into her knee-high boots, she couldn’t say - then almost fell over as Varric punched her affably in the elbow. “So. Anything new you want to share? Amusing nighttime encounters you want to tell me about?” he drawled.

She grabbed his shoulder for support as she pulled her boot back on, then dusted the stray sand off of her coat. “Nope. Nothing. No dreams.” She strode away from him as quickly as the sandy dunes would allow. 

Somehow Varric caught up to her despite his short legs. “You’re lying,” he marveled. “Come on, Lavellan, are you really going to hold out on the Inquisition’s official historian?”

“ _Hah,_ ” Athera scoffed. “You, the official historian? Actually, I take it back, I’d give you that job. Can you have it documented that I rode a dragon everywhere? Even just to the market to get vegetables?”

“Sorry, no can do,” Varric replied. “The truth of your giant nugs is a way better story.”

Athera chuckled as they trudged up yet another sand dune. To her surprise, Varric didn’t press her further, and somehow that was enough to prompt her to spill. “Okay, fine. I had another dream.”

He raised one eyebrow, and Athera nibbled her lower lip briefly before launching into it. “I took your advice. I brought him some cake yesterday-”

Varric snorted loudly, and Athera glared at him. “It was _your_ idea!”

“Yeah, but I didn’t think you would actually do it,” Varric said.

Athera flushed. “ _Anyway._ I brought him some stupid cakes. And I thought he hated them because he was so mean about it. But then in the dream, he was… kind of nice. Almost nice,” she amended. “He was polite, at least. He thanked me for the cakes.” 

She trailed off as she realized she didn’t want to tell Varric much more than that. Not that there was much more to say - the dream hadn’t been long, at least as far as Athera could tell. But it was the feelings associated with the dream that she really didn’t want to share. When she’d woken this morning, there had been an odd weight in her chest: a strange mixture of melancholy and anticipation that still lingered just behind her sternum even now, almost a full day later.

A sudden flash of memory floated through her mind’s eye: Abelas’s golden-eyed gaze on her face, his brows furrowed but his lips soft as he studied her.

Another image flashed across her brain. His smirk, the first expression of amusement she’d ever seen on his perpetually frowning face. To Athera’s horror, she could feel her face getting hot. 

“Uh oh,” Varric said. He cocked his head curiously. “So, that Chantry-sister-in-the-Fade thing you said. Was that a self-fulfilling prophecy, or…?” 

“No!” she protested, mentally cursing her traitorously reddened cheeks. “No. It’s not like that. It’s nothing. Accidental meetings in the Fade, that’s all.” 

Varric shrugged. “If you say so. Just remember, I’m taking notes for my book if you want anything documented.”

“Don’t you dare,” she said, but her retort was perfunctory this time. Intrusive thoughts of the ancient Sentinel kept darting through her mind like Sera’s enraged bees. 

She saw his haughty disdain when she’d offered to show him the library, and his oddly endearing confusion when he’d looked at the cakes. She saw the forest-green vallaslin spanning his shaven temples and the long silvery fall of his braid. She saw the customary cold suspicion in his narrowed eyes, and the unexpected softness in his face when he thanked her. 

Abelas was an ass. A belligerent, better-than-you, ancient ass. 

So why was Athera half-hoping to see him again in the Fade tonight?

******************

Spirits twined and twisted through the trees of the Arbor Wilds. Small hints of hope and valour and perseveration glinted faintly as Abelas walked along the lush mossy path. 

He slowly made his way toward Mythal’s temple. Truth be told, he wasn’t sure why he had decided to come here tonight; there was nothing left to come back for. Like him, the few other surviving Sentinels had abandoned the temple after the loss of the Vir’Abelasan.

He walked quietly along the path for some time watching the spirits cluster around sites of recent battles. Moonlight filtered through the leaves, a soft and luscious tint of light that matched the mellow glow of the spirits.

Eventually he reached the base of a crumbling bridge, and there on top of the bridge was Athera.

Abelas stopped in his tracks. As with every time he’d seen her in the Fade, her feet were bare and her hair was free and floating. She was crouched at the top of the bridge with something cradled in her hands: a spirit, he thought, based on the reflected golden glow on her face. 

He watched as she rose to her feet. She spoke quietly to the entity in her hands, then slowly lifted her cradled palms into the air. 

A tiny shimmering wisp rose from her hands and drifted into the sky. Athera’s smile widened as she watched the miniature spirit spinning happily through the air. Then she met his gaze.

Abelas forced himself to inhale. It somehow felt as though the air had been pulled from his lungs and into the sky along with the tiny wisp. Slowly he approached the bridge, then climbed up the shattered stones until he was facing her.

“I did not expect to find you here,” he said. And yet, if he was honest with himself, he wasn’t entirely displeased.

“Odd, isn’t it?” she agreed. “But I guess it makes sense. I mean, right before I fell asleep I was thinking of… uh, nothing.” Her cheeks pinkened, and she scratched the back of her head awkwardly before smiling brightly at him. “How about these birds, huh? They’re so lovely.”

He frowned slightly and looked around. The only other living entities he could see were the multitude of spirits. “There are no birds in the area,” he said.

Her smile fell slightly, and she gave him an odd look. She pointed to the little wisp, which was still darting playfully through the night sky. “There’s one right there,” she said in the kind voice of a _ghi’lin_ speaking to a particularly stupid child.

He stared at her for a moment, feeling both annoyed and alarmed. “That is a wisp,” he said. “You held it in your hands. How do you not know its nature when it was cradled in your grasp?”

She stared back at him incredulously, then suddenly gasped and grabbed his arm. “I know why!” she blurted. “It’s the Fade! Sometimes things look different here to different people, right? When I fell into the Fade with Solas and Cassandra and Cole, Cassandra saw maggots but I saw spiders. It must be that!” 

Her grip on his arm was friendly but firm. Before he could move to pull his arm away, she released him. She toyed awkwardly with her fingers for a moment before addressing him again. “When I look at that… being, I see a bird,” she explained. “Its feathers are a cascade of colours - purple and blue and pink and green. It’s really beautiful.”

Abelas frowned as he studied the wisp. He had no idea what she was talking about; it was just a wisp. It looked like how it was supposed to look: like a luminescent pulsing mote of light. 

“What do you see when you look at it?” Athera asked. 

He studied the glowing golden form. “I see a wisp,” he said without thinking. 

Athera snorted a tiny laugh. “Thank you. That’s very descriptive.”

He scowled at her, then looked at the wisp again. “It’s small and golden,” he said bluntly. He pursed his lips, then added, “It’s a small breath of life given form. Wisps are the simplest type of spirit. They are little more than will given a hint of shape.”

Athera was quiet, and Abelas finally looked down at her to find her eyebrows raised and her face serious. “Wow,” she said. “I wish I could see that.”

“You cannot draw from the essence of the Fade,” he said. “Perhaps that is why you see a more mundane form.” 

Athera shot him a rueful half-smile. “That’s probably it, unfortunately,” she said. Then she gestured to a cluster of spirits that were gathered around a dead shemlen about twenty paces away. “And that group of bir- I mean… That group of, um, beings. What do you see there?”

“More spirits,” he said simply. “We are too far away to tell what they embody. But this land has seen countless bloody battles. Many types of spirits gather in places like this.” He shot her a suspicious look. “Has Solas not spoken of this to you?”

“He has,” Athera said softly. “But I’d like to hear about it from you. You’re the one who lived in the times of Arlathan, after all.”

Abelas shifted uncomfortably and folded his arms. He didn’t enjoy mulling over the past; it was too painful, and the longing too sharp. But Athera wasn’t really asking about Arlathan now. 

He glanced at her again. Her arms were clasped loosely across her middle, her face peaceful and curious as she studied the spirits. An errant strand of her gently drifting hair was curling toward his bicep, and he was visited by a strange urge to twine it around his finger. 

He took a step away from her and unfolded his arms. “We can approach the spirits,” he said. “I will tell you what they are.”

Her eyes widened. “You - really? All right,” she said. She eagerly followed him off the bridge until they were about ten paces from the group of swirling spirits. 

Abelas pointed to each one in turn. “Justice. Determination. Rage. Courage. Sacrifice,” he stated. He hesitated for a moment before pointing to the last and smallest spirit. “Sorrow.” 

Athera was silent again, and after a long moment, Abelas looked down at her. 

Her eyes were on the shemlen soldier’s body, and the look on her face brought an unexpected pang of sympathy to his chest. “That soldier,” she said softly. “He’s… he was one of mine.”

She gazed at the body for a moment longer, then slowly sat on the mossy ground and wrapped her arms around her knees. She looked up at him with shining eyes. “Abelas… Do you ever think about what your life would have been like if you weren’t a guardian of Mythal’s temple?”

He frowned. In truth, Abelas had never considered the possibility of _not_ being a guardian of Mythal’s temple. In his youth he had taken a body to serve her, and he had always done so faithfully. When the war of the false gods had arisen, his duty had only become clearer, and his election to guard the Vir’Abelasan from all comers had been obvious. The idea of doing anything other than guarding Mythal’s interests was not something that had ever occurred to him. 

This only made it harder to accept that he had failed at his duty. It was the greatest mark of shame he could imagine. Fen’Harel’s timely appearance was his only saving grace; only by helping the Dread Wolf would he reclaim his honour.

But he couldn’t explain this to Athera. Aside from the obvious - that Fen’Harel’s plans could not be shared - she was too young, and she knew nothing of their ways. She wouldn’t understand. 

He supposed his silence must have stretched too long, because Athera spoke again. “Solas told us that your name means ‘sorrow’. Do you… are you thinking of taking another name?” 

“And why would I do that?” he retorted. “This name and this duty are all I have ever known. I cannot change myself like a courtier changes gowns.” He cut her a sharp look. “Do you think to discard your title so quickly? Have you become tired of your duty so soon? I understand that you have held this position for only a year. Have your responsibilities already grown too heavy to bear?”

Athera recoiled at the vehemence of his tone. “No!” she said. “I’m not - that’s not why I’m asking! I’m not even thinking about me. I was thinking about _you_. You defended Mythal’s temple for a thousand years, and you never gave up. You never questioned your duty, even though you lost more friends every time you got woken up. I really... I can’t imagine how hard that must have been. A thousand years...” 

She looked away from him and furtively wiped her cheek with the back of her hand. “I just… wanted to know how you kept on… going. Even when horrible things happened. That’s all.” 

She took a deep, shaky breath and gazed at the drifting spirits, and Abelas tried to quash the writhing discomfort in his belly. His blaze of anger was fading as quickly as it had come, and as he studied the lines of misery in the curve of her spine, a crush of guilt squeezed his chest. 

_Fen’Harel was right about this woman,_ he thought. It was not a pleasant thing to admit, but he couldn’t deny that she was different than what he’d originally thought. She wasn’t a thoughtless usurper of ancient knowledge. She wasn’t a clueless da’len. He’d prowled around the castle enough during the last two days and heard enough talk among the various quicklings who now lived at Tarasyl’an Te’las. 

Athera was the voice of hope for a people who were doomed to fall. And Abelas couldn’t quite bring himself to crush her. 

“We were fighting for the chance of a better world,” he finally said. “And yes, at times it was a terrible burden. But we were proud to fulfill a duty that could not be denied. You know what this is like. You have made decisions that you will regret, and more of your companions will fall in the course of those decisions. The sorrow may drive you to your knees at times. But you will have worked in the name of what was right. That is what you must remember.” 

She nodded her head but didn’t reply. Her gaze remained on the dead soldier and his entourage until most of the spirits drifted away, leaving only sorrow behind. 

Then finally she spoke. “I won’t give up,” she said quietly. “I can’t. It’s not a choice. I can’t fail them. They picked me for this, Fen’Harel only knows why, and… I won’t fail them.” She shot him a hard look. “Go ahead and sneer at me all you want. I don’t care. I won’t give up.” 

He drank in the determination in her ice-grey eyes for a long moment, then slowly lowered himself to the ground. By the time he was seated on the grass beside her, her expression had melted back into a wide-eyed look of surprise. 

Her lips were slightly parted, her full lower lip painted with a light sheen that reflected the moonlight. Her eyes were free of guile and fixed on his face, and he forced himself to look away from her.

“I believe you,” he said, and watched as the spirit of sorrow rose from the soldier and drifted away into the night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: I should maybe have said this earlier, but I totally subscribe to the fan theory that Solas was a spirit who took on a corporeal form in order to help Mythal. I love the way it's portrayed in Feynite's [Looking Glass fic,](https://archiveofourown.org/works/4867676/chapters/11157401) and this is basically how I imagine Abelas as well.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: In my playthroughs, Morrigan had a son with Alistair and Kieran carries the Old God soul. (And I love how the Dragon’s Keep describes it: “Morrigan has an Old God baby with Alistair.” _Old God baby?!_ LOL.)
> 
> Now with [beautiful art](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/post/178559585508/pikapeppa-hansaera-abelas-and-athera-lavellan), made by HanSaera on Tumblr!

Varric placed his bowl of porridge on the table and sat next to Athera, then began to eat.

She shot him a quick sidelong glance as she sipped her tea. Varric’s face was totally calm and innocent, and it made her want to pinch him.

“I don’t have anything to tell you,” she said haughtily. 

He looked up from his bowl. “Did I say anything?”

“You don’t have to,” she retorted. “Try thinking less loudly.” 

He chuckled. “Thanks for the tip, Herald. I’ll work on that.” He spooned up another bite of porridge.

Athera tapped her fingers against her cup for another moment. Then she slumped her elbows on the table and leaned into Varric’s shoulder. “I think Abelas and I are becoming friends or something,” she confided. 

He raised his spoon and one eyebrow. “Or something?” he asked. “That’s not ominous at all.”

“Friends, then,” she amended hastily. She paused for a second. “I think.” 

The truth was that Athera didn’t really know what was going on. For the past two weeks she and Abelas had barely spoken a word to each other during the day, but they had met in the Fade every single night. Athera was reluctant to say he was actively seeking her company because that seemed too bold a statement, but since she had no control over where her sleeping mind took her, how else could she explain his consistent ability to find her in her dreams?

She couldn’t tell how much time they’d spent together; time always seemed both stretched and compressed in the Fade. But she always remembered their nightly encounters with stunning clarity, not unlike the time Solas had taken her back to Haven. It couldn’t be easy being a mage, but Athera could admit to a certain envy of their ability to control dreams. 

Whether Abelas was seeking her out or not, the bottom line remained the same: against all odds, Skyhold’s prickliest guest seemed to be softening. 

She sipped idly from her cup as she revisited a moment with Abelas from a couple of nights ago. The voices of the Vir’Abelasan were particularly loud that night, and she’d been having trouble blocking them out. Her wayward hair roiled around her shoulders like a nest of snakes, and the susurrus of incomprehensible Elvhen voices was increasingly difficult to ignore. 

She’d turned to Abelas in desperation. “Do you know a spell or anything to control this?” she pleaded. “I might cut my damn hair off if it doesn’t stop. I think I’d make a more charming egghead than Solas.” The joke was weak, but the sentiment was genuine; she could barely hear herself think through the increasingly vocal whispers. 

Abelas had frowned at her for a long moment, and Athera initially thought he was going to refuse. Then he reached out and stroked his fingers through her hair.

A sudden shock rippled from her scalp clear down to her toes, and her breath abruptly stalled in her chest. Abelas slowly wound the length of her hair around his fist, then leaned in close. 

Athera’s eyes fluttered shut as his whisper ghosted across her ear. “ _Mar’an melana enan ame dinem, lethalla’an. Amen atisha. Ma’an din silaimast._ ” 

She shivered and wrapped her arms around herself. She had no idea what he’d said, and the fickle whispers didn’t deign to clarify, but the foreign cadence of his voice sent a cascade of goosebumps down her arms. It took a long, mind-numbing moment before Athera realized that the voices in her head had gone quiet. 

She finally inhaled and opened her heavy eyelids, only to meet the Sentinel’s unflinching stare. His golden eyes glowed like the wisps he’d so aptly described, and though his brow was creased in a frown, the expression didn’t carry his usual faint disapproval. There was something different about his face that night, something softer yet somehow more piercing, and she couldn’t decide if she wanted to look away from the intensity of his gaze, or never look away again. 

For the space of a few long, paralyzing heartbeats, Athera couldn’t breathe. Then Abelas slowly unwound his fingers from her hair. When he finally released the wavy mass, it fell to the middle of her back like the inert entity that it was. 

He took a slow step back. “That appears to have helped,” he said. Then he turned away and disappeared. 

“ _Lavellan._ ” 

Athera jumped as Varric’s voice dragged her from her reverie. “What? Nothing,” she blurted.

Varric shook his head and huffed. “Andraste’s ass. The Inquisitor and the angry elf grandpa? I don’t know if I can spin this in a flattering light.” Varric adopted a mocking storyteller’s voice. “‘The Inquisitor fluttered her eyelashes at the ancient warrior. ‘Meet me on the highest tower,’ she crooned. ‘But be careful that you don’t break your hip.’” 

Athera shoved him. “Shut up!” she hissed. “Don’t go telling the entire Great Hall, you big mabari mouth.”

“So you admit there’s something to tell,” Varric said shrewdly. 

She covered her face with her hands and groaned, then gulped the rest of her tea and stood up. “I have important work to do,” she said bluntly. “Viviennes to disappoint with my poor manners, Dorians to disappoint with my poor fashion sense.” She slung one leg over the bench to leave the table, but Varric reached out and tapped her hand. 

“Hey. You know I’m just shitting you, right? Tell me whatever you want. Or don’t. But you _can_ talk to me.” 

Athera sobered as she met Varric’s earnest gaze. She patted his hand in return, then stepped away from the bench. “Thanks, Varric. Really though, there’s nothing to tell.” 

But as she strolled casually toward the rotunda, a small and silly part of her mind wondered if that was going to change. 

**********************

“...and with the advantage of Mythal’s dragon at her side, the Inquisitor stands a much better chance against the creature that Corypheus controls. I look forward to hearing what you can tell us about the stolen orb.” Solas arranged his papers neatly on his desk, then looked askance at Abelas. “Is something wrong?”

Abelas shrugged irritably. “Everything about this is wrong. These people making pleas to Mythal, garnering her favour…” He trailed off moodily as his conflicting thoughts stopped themselves from being spoken. A month ago, he would have ranted that these shemlen had no place begging for Mythal’s help. One did not simply ask for Mythal’s protection; one had to earn the right to be protected.

Now, however, he could no longer say the shemlen knew nothing of what they asked, for Athera carried the weight of Mythal’s boon on her slender shoulders. Mythal’s will worked invisibly behind the Inquisitor’s ice-grey eyes, and the voices of countless Sentinels tangled and pulled at her hair at night. Abelas used to watch the ghostly fingers in her hair with resentment, but there was a part of him now that wished to spare her the inevitable pain.

He, Abelas, Mythal’s most trusted Sentinel, wanted to shield a quickling elf from his lady’s will. And that was what irritated him the most.

Solas’s response was calm, but his words only served to chafe. “From what I understand, the ancient rites were well-respected. And prior to that, Mythal herself appeared to Athera and Morrigan by way of an eluvian. It is unlikely she would have done so if her favour had not been earned.” 

Abelas whipped around to look at Solas in horror. “Mythal appeared to that witch?” he demanded. “This is unheard of. What circumstances would have led to such a thing?” 

Solas narrowed his eyes in warning, though his voice remained placid. “Something involving Morrigan’s child, I believe. I am not entirely clear on the circumstances. The Inquisitor would know more.” 

Abelas inhaled deeply through his nose, but injustice burned in his gut like a brand. He paced angrily in front of Solas’s desk for a moment, then spun toward the Dread Wolf. “You cannot possibly be satisfied with this,” he hissed quietly. “It is absurd. My men defended her temple for a thousand years without complaint or expectation. We sacrificed our remaining legacy when the Inquisitor fulfilled the rites. And when Mythal does show herself, she appears to that… that usurping, arrogant, entitled _human?_ ”

“Hold your peace, lethallin,” Solas said quietly. There were daggers in his gaze and a sharpness to his voice, and a warning chime at the back of Abelas’s mind was clanging for him to stop before the Dread Wolf lost his patience, but the floodgates of his rage had been opened, and he was unable to close his mouth.

“I cannot,” he snapped. “I will not be at peace with this. Can you imagine if she had drunk from the Vir’Abelasan? It does not bear thinking about! She is a sneak thief prowling the gardens of our knowledge, seeking to take without respect. I will not have it.” He ran a hand across his hair in agitation. “I will not tolerate that cursed shem!”

“Abelas,” Solas snapped.

Abelas looked up. Solas’s eyes were fixed on the door behind him, and the tension in Solas’s jaw made his stomach drop. 

He turned slowly to look. Athera was framed in the doorway, her dark hair bound in a braided crown and her eyebrows furrowed as she stared at him.

She swallowed hard, and there was a tremor in her voice when she spoke. “Well, it’s good to know where I stand. I guess I’ll just… go sharpen my daggers or something.” She turned and walked away. 

Abelas stood frozen as the Inquisitor’s footsteps faded back into the Great Hall. Solas, meanwhile, turned away and began tidying the already-tidy papers on his desk. 

When his heart rate had settled, Abelas slowly walked over to join Solas at the desk. The older elf shot him a quick look, and Abelas bowed his head at the fury in the Dread Wolf’s gaze. 

Solas idly wiped a fleck of dust from the glowing shard on his desk. “That was unacceptable,” he said, very quietly. “You will not behave in this manner again. And you will make this right with Athera. She has shown you nothing but hospitality, and I will not have you at odds with her.” 

Abelas nodded in silence. He watched glumly as Solas sat in his chair and opened a tome. Finally Abelas spoke in Elvhen, in an equally quiet voice. “I apologize, hah’ren. I did not mean to edge toward sensitive matters. You do not think Athera heard…?” 

His blood went cold at the thought of betraying the Dread Wolf, whether intentional or not. When he’d first arrived at Tarasyl’an Te’las, Solas had briefly explained what had happened with Felassan. Abelas had shaken his head in pity, certain that he would never execute a similar gaffe. But now as he thought of the hurt in Athera’s face, a distinct thread of fear tugged at his belly… and the fear wasn’t entirely for himself. 

Solas finally looked at him, and Abelas’s shoulders relaxed at the return of his usual compassionate gaze. “No,” he replied softly in Elvhen. “I do not think we need be concerned. But you will be more careful from now on,” he added. “You may not tolerate the witch, but I will not tolerate careless mistakes.”

Abelas nodded once more. “I understand,” he said.

Solas gave him a tiny smile, then nodded graciously. “Thank you for your assistance,” he said in the shemlen’s common tongue. “Please let me know if there is anything else I can do to assist in your research.”

Abelas nodded officiously, then left the rotunda. His feet carried him to the underground library, but his mind was elsewhere. 

He would set things to rights with the Inquisitor tonight. But in the depths of his heart, he recognized the truth: it was not purely for Fen’Harel’s sake that Abelas sought her favour. 

**********************

“Nine of Dragons,” Cole said.

Athera lowered the playing card in disappointment. “Aww, this is no fun,” she complained. “I thought you’d have a harder time guessing them once you became human.”

“I’m not fully human,” Cole explained. “Solas says the essence of the spirit still remains. Maybe that’s why I can’t play your card game properly.” He shrugged sadly. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be sorry!” she said hastily. “It’s fine. I was just trying to entertain…” She trailed off as she looked down at her hands; they were now full of flowers instead of cards. 

Athera stared at her flower-filled lap for a moment, then shrugged. _Dreams will be dreams,_ she thought, then gave Cole a handful of blooms. “Here,” she said. “Let’s make crowns for everyone.” 

“All right,” Cole said amicably, and they began weaving flower crowns together. 

Some indeterminate amount of time later, the attic door opened. Athera frowned but didn’t raise her eyes. _It better not be him,_ she thought resentfully. She’d purposely forced herself to think hard about Cole’s attic before falling asleep, in the hopes that Abelas wouldn’t find her here in this isolated spot. 

No such luck, though. She briefly glanced up and met the Sentinel’s austere gaze, then dropped her eyes back to the crown in her hands and continued weaving in silence. 

Abelas slowly descended the stairs and came to stand against the banister in front of her. The silence stretched between them, and Athera could feel her shoulders tensing, but she forced herself not to show her agitation as she finished her fourth flower crown and placed it carefully on Cole’s flaxen hair.

“Thank you,” Cole said. He placed a crown on Athera’s head in turn before speaking again. “Hurt, heartsick, unhappy but hopeful. You want to speak to him, but you aren’t sure what to say. Golden eyes on your face, slender fingers in your hair, you’re angry but you want him to touch-”

“Cole!” Athera squeaked. “Stop it!” Completely mortified, she jumped to her feet with her face absolutely flaming, then strode past Abelas and began to run. 

She made it all the way to the garden, then stopped short as she realized Abelas was already there. She glared at him and shoved her enthusiastically floating hair away from her face. “What do you want?” she snapped. 

Abelas took a slow step closer. “I wish to speak with you about this afternoon,” he said. 

“Why even bother?” she demanded. “After all, I’m just a cursed shem. What could the great and mighty Sentinel have to say to a lowly creature like me?” Her voice wobbled, and she swallowed her distress with difficulty and folded her arms with a renewed scowl.

Abelas stepped closer. “Those words were not meant for you,” he said. “Solas and I were discussing that abhorrent witch. I would not say such things about you. I would… I am more than willing to tolerate you.” He winced suddenly. “What I mean to say…” 

His composure was slipping, and despite herself, Athera’s anger began to melt as Abelas looked increasingly and uncharacteristically uncomfortable. 

He took a deep breath and seemed to pull himself together. When he spoke again, he was as composed and stern as ever. “It was not you that I was insulting this afternoon,” he said. “I would never speak ill of you.” 

“Oh,” Athera said stupidly. 

Then she glared at him again. “Actually, you know what? That’s not better. You shouldn’t be calling anyone a shem. It’s an extremely rude thing to say. _I’ve_ never even called a human that, not even when they used to chase our clan from their lands. It’s not like any of us have a choice about our short little lives,” she railed. “We’re all going to die sooner than later, and much sooner than you. You can’t decide you’re going to call one of us a shem and another not. I’m no more special than Morrigan.”

“That is absolutely false,” Abelas interrupted, and Athera straightened in surprise at the intensity of his tone. “The witch is inherently selfish. She seeks to take the richness of our culture with no appreciation of everything we have lost. She is a greedy power-monger, and she is _nothing_ like you.” He broke off, his chest heaving with anger, and her heart rate spiked as he speared her with his intense golden gaze. 

“You understand duty,” he said flatly. “You understand the meaning of sacrifice and respect. You are young - _fenedhis,_ you are so very young - but you understand our ways more than I ever thought possible.” He paused again, and Athera watched with a painfully pounding heart as he ran a hand along the length of his braid. Finally he met her eyes again, and that breathtaking piercing softness was back. “You understand _halam’shivanas._ You are far more elvhen than I expected you to be,” he admitted. “And I admire you for it.”

Athera stared at him. Her stomach was roiling with butterflies, and the galloping pulse in her throat was now far louder than the soft and sibilant whispers in her mind. Abelas thought _she_ understood the meaning of duty? She was nothing compared to him. She genuinely couldn’t fathom how he managed to stand upright under the crushing weight of the life he’d led. 

Athera had always considered herself a happy-go-lucky type of girl, but with every month that had gone by with the Inquisition, the weight of her decisions and of the people she’d failed to save piled more heavily on her shoulders. Getting out of bed every day required a full five minutes of pepping herself up. Thinking of all her friends’ faces and the happy moments they’d shared between killing demons and red Templars and darkspawn, remembering the songs she’d sung and the hunts she’d shared with her clan, reminding herself of her people - all of them, every single soul in Skyhold: they were the reason she had to keep going. She had told Abelas the truth when she said she would never give up, but she couldn’t imagine the force of will that was required to keep up such a responsibility for more than a millenium. 

Abelas might be cranky and bad-tempered and inflexible. But he was the strongest man she had ever known, and damn it all, she admired him too. 

She ducked her head awkwardly and twirled her fingers in a slowly floating lock of hair. “Um… the stuff you said about Morrigan… that’s not entirely true,” she mumbled. “It’s… she’s kind of complicated. You should, um, you should talk to her. Get to know her better.” 

“I have no interest in talking to her,” Abelas retorted. “I am only interested in talking to you.”

Her heart gave a traitorous little fish-leap of pleasure at his words, but Athera ruthlessly ignored it. “So _talk_ to me then!” she said. 

Abelas drew back with a frown. “I am talking to you,” he said slowly. “We are speaking right now.” 

She gazed at him in exasperation. “This doesn’t count,” she said. “This is… it’s a smokescreen. You’re not even really trying. The Fade feels safe to you, and honestly, I get that. I really do. But you need to move forward, Abelas,” she insisted. “I know you’re unhappy with how things have turned out. No, unhappy is the wrong word…” She tugged thoughtfully at her floating hair, then tried again. “It’s devastating,” she said bluntly. “What you’ve been through… I can’t imagine your pain. But I can’t keep this up,” she said. She impatiently shoved her stupid cloud of hair away from her neck. “If you want to talk to me, you have to meet me in the real world. I can’t… this Fade talk… I can’t do this anymore. It’s not enough for me.” 

She studied his clenched jaw with sudden anxiety. He looked absolutely furious. 

She opened her mouth to speak - to apologize, to shout at him some more, she honestly wasn’t sure - but Abelas spoke first. “Fine,” he said. Then he disappeared.

Athera stood paralyzed for a long moment. Her infernal hair drifted slowly around her shoulders, but she ignored it; all her attention had to be put toward quashing the sudden squeezing pain in her chest. She breathed deeply for a minute until the pain lessened to a bearable dull ache, then slowly made her way toward the tavern.

She didn’t get more than twenty paces before stubbing her toe on a random rock. “Damn,” she hissed, and hopped on her other foot while inspecting her injured toe. “If this a bloody dream, why does pain have to be so real here?” she snapped at nobody. Then she lost her balance and fell backward. 

Right before she hit the ground, she awoke.

She gasped and sat bolt upright in bed. And a hooded figure moved into her room from the balcony. 

Athera squeaked in alarm and instinctively grabbed the dagger she kept under her pillow, then exhaled heavily as she recognized Abelas’s tall silhouette and jacked thighs. She released the dagger and ran a shaking hand along the length of her loosely braided hair. “What in the Dread Wolf’s name are you doing on the balcony?” she demanded. 

He stopped short in the middle of the room. “You told me to meet you in the real world if I wished to speak,” he said stiffly. “I have simply done as you requested. There is no need to draw arms.”

Now that the surprise of his appearance was wearing off, she felt almost jittery with relief that he was here. For a moment there, she’d genuinely thought he was done with her. She tucked the dagger back under her pillow, then slid out of bed. “Yeah, but it’s kind of weird to show up on the balcony,” she said. “You could have knocked on the door downstairs.” 

His pursed his lips petulantly, and Athera almost smiled at his pout. “Balconies are a perfectly legitimate entryway,” he groused.

She took a cautious step closer to him. “Maybe in ancient Elvhenan,” she said.

He frowned at her as she took another step closer. “They are not considered as such here?”

She shook her head. “How can they be? No one can get to them.” 

His confused expression dissolved. “Ah,” he said. He pushed his hood back slowly, and Athera shamelessly admired the sweeping lines of his vallaslin across the sharpness of his cheekbones and the smooth sides of his scalp. “Spirits normally use the balconies,” he explained softly. “Corporeal beings use the door.” 

Athera stopped as the implications of his words struck home. “Wait. Are you… were you a spirit once?” she asked in wonder.

He nodded slowly. “I was. But that was a very long time ago.” 

His gaze dropped from her eyes to her lips, then down along the length of her braid as it traversed her chest, and Athera self-consciously adjusted the shoulder strap of her nightshift. Her jittery feeling of relief was changing, shifting and heating into something more restless, and she was suddenly very aware of her nakedness beneath her thin cotton shift. 

She bit her lower lip as his heated gaze returned to her face. He took three slow steps closer, and with every step, the jangling excitement in her belly clamoured more loudly. 

He was right in front of her now, close enough to touch if she dared. Then he reached out and took her braid in his hand. 

Athera gave a tiny involuntary gasp and swayed toward him. Suddenly his other hand was cupping her jaw, his golden eyes flashing as he leaned in, and his lips captured her own in a firm and fervent kiss. 

A thrilling lifting feeling filled her belly and her chest, stealing the breath from her lungs and leaving her positively giddy. She rose on her tiptoes and placed her palms against the lean hardness of his abs, her lips parting in bliss as his tongue gently tasted the fullness of her lower lip. His right hand was coiled in her braided hair, his left thumb stroking the line of her jaw, and Athera dragged in a shaky little breath as his hand slid around to cradle the back of her neck. 

A long, blissful moment later, Abelas gently peeled his lips from hers. “Do you know the meaning of your name?” he murmured.

Athera took a shaky breath. “Half-dreaming, or something like that?” she said weakly.

His fingertips gently stroked her nape, and his touch was so distracting that she almost missed his words. “That is the literal meaning, yes,” he replied. “But there is another layer. ‘Athera’ means ‘mystery’ or ‘enigma’.” 

His eyes traced slowly over her vallaslin and back to her lips. “A mystery that spans the dreaming and waking worlds: I cannot imagine a more fitting name for you.” 

She stared at him without speaking. Her palms were still flush against his abdomen, and his heated thumb idly traced the tender skin just behind her ear. Her entire body was lit with desire, and his beautiful voice was like a drug inflaming the exquisite shimmering _want_ that danced beneath her skin. The only words at the tip of her tongue right now were ‘take me’, but the Sentinel’s handsome face was serious and contemplative, and Athera couldn’t trust herself to speak.

Abelas ran his thumb along her jaw once more before taking a small step back. “You were not wrong to demand that I join you in this world,” he said quietly. He released her hair, then tucked its braided length over her shoulder. “Perhaps... we should begin anew.” 

His golden eyes were tender and warm, so much warmer than she ever thought this forbidding man could be. Athera nodded, then finally found her tongue. 

“I’d like that,” she whispered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: The translation of Elvhen phrase in this chapter will be revealed in time. Ughhh it took me like an hour of poring through [FenxShiral’s wonderful resources](https://archiveofourown.org/series/229061) to come up with one stupid phrase. #killme #fanficwriterslife


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Fic rating is now Explicit. :3  
> Meanings of Elvhen phrases here should be pretty clear from context, but translations are in the endnotes nevertheless.

Athera shifted in her sleep and tucked her fist under her chin. She was curled on the divan with her knees pulled up, and Abelas’s chest ached as he studied her. Her pose was consummately childlike, a stark contrast with the melancholy peace on her slumbering face. 

He and the Inquisitor had sat together talking quietly for hours. She’d asked if he would tell her about Arlathan, and he had obliged her by pulling a few small memories from the darkest corners of his mind. He’d tried to explain what it was like to take a body: the sudden shock of sensation, the strangeness of solidity, the layers of complexity that seemed to merge and meld in his mind as he learned to become more than what he’d been. She’d asked him half in jest what the food was like, and he’d described it in loving detail until her lack of Elvhen culinary vocabulary had forced them to discuss other topics instead.

He’d spoken of things tonight that he hadn’t even thought about in eons. The more he’d talked, the more half-forgotten shards of memory flashed through his mind’s eye: the eternally fresh scent of his bed linen in Arlathan, the throb of longing while watching spirits soar with his own feet planted firmly in the grass, the dizzy nausea triggered by a laughing Solas’s swinging dreadlocks when he’d gotten Abelas drunk on _soun’hyn_ for the first time. 

The memories were like poisoned sweets: comforting at first, with a heart-rending burn that scraped his throat and belly on the way down. When the remembered loss threatened to choke him, he’d switched the topic back to Athera. 

She’d told him of the Dalish and the city elves, and she’d described the daily activities of her nomadic clan. Abelas was disgusted to hear of the city elves’ plight under the vile humans’ hands, but he was more fascinated to hear about Athera’s life with her clan. The Dalish way of life epitomized the idea of almost-but-not-quite, boasting a strange combination of old Elvhenan elements that were twisted away from their original meaning or use. Before he knew Athera, he would have told her all the ways that her people were wrong. Now, he simply listened with bemused interest as she spoke about her clan’s revered _arulin’holm_ and of the Vir Tanadhal, which was a hunter’s code of honour supposedly passed down by Andruil. She’d eventually fallen asleep mid-sentence, and it had taken every ounce of will for him to not follow her into the Fade to continue their talk. 

The sharp edge of dawn was rising now, casting a hazy light across the darkened sky, and Abelas gazed with painful fondness at Athera’s lovely face for a moment longer before settling back on the divan and closing his eyes. 

It didn’t take long to find Solas in the Fade. Abelas strode through the forest toward the cloaked figure, and by the time he had drawn level with the rebel leader, the pain in his gut had twisted and roiled into fury. He barely gave Solas enough time to face him before the vitriol began to spill from his mouth. “It was a mistake to come here,” he spat. “I should never have come. You should not have-”

“ _Diana mar avin,_ ” Solas snapped. Abelas glared at him, but obediently closed his mouth as Solas flicked his wrist to cast a spell of silence around them both. 

The spell settled loosely across Abelas’s shoulders, and despite his anger, he relaxed slightly at the familiar tingle of magic. Then Solas clasped his hands behind his back. “Speak your piece,” he said. 

The Dread Wolf’s expression was forbidding, and Abelas knew he was stretching his commander’s tolerance to the breaking point for the second time in a single day, but his anger was too raw to restrain. “I should not have come here,” he said. “This was a mistake. Being here only makes it harder to know what will come.”

Fen’Harel’s frown deepened. “Are you questioning our purpose?”

“No!” Abelas snapped. “I question your insistence that I reacquaint myself with the Inquisitor. She’s - we should have stayed apart. It helps no one for us to know each other better. Why was it not enough for you to accept my fealty and give me tasks to carry out in peace?”

Solas stared at him in confusion for a moment, then suddenly his face went blank. “Oh,” he said, and his entire posture wilted with heartfelt sympathy. “Oh, lethallin. I take it you spoke to Athera?” 

Abelas drew a deep breath and turned away. The rage was boiling through his blood, a thin veil for the agony throbbing in his chest and up toward his throat, and he clenched his fists to master himself before speaking again. “This is your doing,” he accused. “You made me speak to her. You forced me to know her. And now she’s - we - I feel…” 

Abelas trailed off and rubbed his face in distress. He had never imagined being assailed with such feelings for anyone. Liaisons such as this were a distraction from his responsibilities, and he had never entertained anything more than casual encounters with comrades. 

Athera was… a revelation. She was traditional honour and respect bundled in the vivacious body of a beautiful young woman. She was the humour he hadn’t been able to indulge in centuries. She was the hope that he had almost ceded after Mythal’s temple had fallen. She was lively and thoughtful, awkward and kind, and his longing for her was completely and utterly unwelcome. 

In the space of a few short weeks, a mere blink of an eye in the time of his people, Athera Lavellan had sunk into his blood so thoroughly that the mere thought of her made his heart pound more forcefully than a war drum.

Abelas clenched his fingers painfully in his hair, then glared at Solas with a fresh surge of angst. “You have spent a year among these people,” he said. “I know you respect them, and you consider many of them as friends. Why have you bothered? What is the point of knowing who they are if you know you will bring them all to their deaths?” 

The accusation was intended to hurt, and Abelas watched with a combination of guilt and vindictive satisfaction as the older elf’s face crumpled slightly. 

Solas turned away and was silent for a long, terrible moment. “You and I have made many sacrifices in our lives,” he finally said. “The end of this world - the fall of these people… It is a horrendous price to pay. Only by acknowledging that terrible price can we ensure that we do not sink into the entitled arrogance of the evanuris.”

Solas turned back to face him, and the rebel commander’s expression was so steeped in sorrow that Abelas’s rage began to crumble. “You were angry when you first arrived here,” Solas reminded him. “You wanted nothing to do with these people. But it is never a mistake to know more about a people who will soon be gone. We _should_ carry something of them with us. It is only right.” 

He tilted his head back and closed his eyes wearily. “They will see us as monsters someday, Abelas. And perhaps they will be right,” he said softly. “But making it easier for ourselves by pretending they are _not_ people is the quickest path to corruption. Compassion is the only thing that will set us apart.” 

He opened his eyes, then reached out and squeezed Abelas’s shoulder. “It was not my intention to bring you pain,” he said. “I had hoped you would come to appreciate Athera. It did not occur to me that you would come to love her.”

The welling of empathy in the Dread Wolf’s eyes brought a burn of tears to the back of Abelas’s throat. He bowed his head and pulled up his hood to hide his face, but he didn’t pull away from Solas’s sympathetic hand.

Solas squeezed his shoulder once more, then chuckled faintly. “When I told you to make things right with her, this is not what I had in mind.” 

Abelas huffed quietly, then cleared his throat. “Nor did I, hah’ren.” 

They were silent for a moment longer. When Solas spoke again, his voice was calm and businesslike. “Are you still with me?”

Abelas swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes. This changes nothing,” he said. 

Solas was silent for another moment. “I have a task for you, then,” he said. “It requires a short trip away from Tarasyl’an Te’las.”

Abelas nodded again and straightened. He forced his mind away from Athera and back toward his duties. But Solas surprised him by taking hold of his arm once more. 

“This changes everything,” Solas said softly. “You need not pretend otherwise. Knowing what we are about to lose is the only way we can truly know our own resolve.”

Abelas inhaled slowly, then blew out a breath and nodded. “Yes,” he said simply.

Abelas was a man of his duty, and he would follow that duty until his end. But never before had _halam’shivanas_ seemed so bitter.

**********************

Varric discarded a card, then picked another from the deck. “So. Gramps has been gone for a while,” he said casually. 

Athera wrinkled her nose at the unflattering nickname and flicked a peanut shell at Varric before tossing down a card. “Yep,” she said. 

Varric studied his cards in silence, then traded another pair. “Any idea when he’s coming back?”

Athera scoffed. “You’re asking me? I’m only the Inquisitor. You know I’m the last person to know anything around here.” She idly rearranged the cards in her hand, then picked up another card from the deck. 

Varric lowered his cards to the table and gave her a frank look. “Lavellan.”

Athera swallowed, then pointed at his cards. “I can see your hand,” she said weakly. “I’m pretty sure that means I win.”

He ignored her dumb joke. “You’ve been more clammed-up than Cullen’s asscheeks for the past few days, and it’s starting to make us nervous,” he said. “Either something really good is happening, or something really bad.” He raised his eyebrows. “You wanna talk about it?” 

Athera reached over and stole one of Varric’s cards. “Nah. There’s nothing to tell. I might be in love or something, and he might have left Skyhold right after I realized it, but it’s no big deal.” She smiled brightly at Varric. “Did I ever tell you I have terrible taste in men? There was one time this new mage came to join our clan, and naturally-” 

“In _love?_ ” Varric interrupted. “Seriously? Well shit, that was quick.” 

“In love _or something,_ ” Athera insisted. “I said ‘or something’. I probably have no idea what I’m talking about. Not that it matters, since he’s pranced off to go do whatever it is that ancient elvhen warriors do.” She glanced briefly at Varric, but the concern in his face only served to make her feel worse.

“And, uh, that dream business,” he said cautiously. “The visits or whatever. He hasn’t…?” Varric trailed off as Athera shook her head. 

“No, I asked him not to do that anymore,” she said. “Hanging out in the Fade didn’t feel real. I wanted something real.” 

She suddenly stopped as the truth of her own words struck her. When she and Abelas had first started spending time together in the Fade, she hadn’t expected this. The most she’d hoped for was a cordial working relationship where she wasn’t defending herself from his insults every two seconds. When he’d started opening up to her, she’d almost not believed it, thinking that she was just imagining his hints of warmth.

Then they’d had that argument in the Fade, and he’d come to her in the real world, and that night had changed everything.

Athera remembered the perfection of that night with a painful mix of wistful bitterness. It was like Abelas had finally lowered his shield, and the man behind it was everything she’d never realized she was missing. In the depth of conversation they’d had, the mutual respect that thrummed between them as strongly as the desire that warmed her blood, she could see something as promising as the tender shoots of a springtime plant. 

There was a connection between her and Abelas, an understanding that spanned the centuries between their births. In the wildness of her imagination, Athera could envision something deeper and more meaningful with him than she’d had with any other lover. 

Varric was right. Her stupid comment about the Chantry sister and the Fade _had_ been a self-fulfilling prophecy: she’d gone and fallen for the ancient Sentinel. 

And now he was gone, and she didn’t know when - or even if - he was coming back. 

She sniffed hard and forced a smile, but she couldn’t quite meet Varric’s eyes. “Of course, in retrospect, I guess hanging out in the Fade is better than nothing.” She put her cards down and rubbed her forehead. “Gods above, is that pathetic? That sounds so pathetic. I’m going to go wash my socks now or something equally tragic.” She pushed her chair away from the table and stood. 

“Lavellan, listen,” Varric said. Athera stopped to look at him, hopeful that he had advice of some kind, but he only scratched the back of his head awkwardly and shrugged. “Shit. I don’t really know what to say.” 

She snorted. “ _You_ have nothing to say? I must really be fucked, then.” 

Varric’s eyes widened at her uncharacteristic curse. “Now now, there’s no need for a fucking pottymouth,” he scolded.

Athera laughed. _Really_ laughed, until there were tears at the corners of her eyes. If some of the tears weren’t of mirth, she didn’t really think she could be blamed. 

When she finally caught her breath, she walked around the table and hugged Varric around the neck. “Thanks,” she said. “You’re bad at advice, but you’re a good friend.” 

“Not ideal, but I’ll take it,” he said as he patted her arm. “Now go wash those socks or whatever. I’ll meet you at the tavern later if you want.”

She released him and smiled. “That would be great. I’ll see you later.”

That evening, Athera was changing into a more casual outfit for the tavern when she heard a knock at the door. 

_Probably Varric,_ she thought. “Come in,” she hollered. She kicked off her boots and bent over to dig her comfy nugskin flats out of the armoire. “I thought we were just going to meet at the tavern,” she said, then turned around and jumped in startlement. 

“Abelas!” she gasped. Her heart leapt with pleasure at his appearance, followed by a wash of trepidation as she studied the seriousness of his handsome face. “You’re back,” she said dumbly. 

He nodded and moved into the room toward her. “Yes,” he said. “I would not have truly left without saying goodbye.” 

She frowned at the foreboding undertone of his words, then chose to ignore them. “Where did you go?” she asked. 

He took another step closer, and she took an involuntary step back the sadness in his face. “I cannot tell you that,” he said. 

She recoiled at his bluntness, then folded her arms defensively. “What’s going on here?” she demanded. “Why are you being all…” She waved vaguely at him, unable to put the ominous quality of his behaviour into words.

He reached out suddenly and tipped her chin up to look into her eyes. “You know I cannot stay here,” he said softly. “Eventually I will leave Tarasyl’an Te’las for good. I must find the places where my people still remain. I have a duty to help them, and that duty must come before everything.” He gently stroked her chin with his thumb. “I know you understand this. You are the same.” 

Athera saw the truth of his words, and she hated it. She pushed his hand away from her face. “What are you saying?” she said shakily. “Are you ending this? After all that talk about starting over fresh, you’re done with me. That’s why you’re here?”

“No,” he said, and Athera fell silent with surprise. “I am here to offer you a choice. You know that I will leave in time. So I give _you_ the choice to end this now, before it goes any further. If you wish, I will bother you no more. I will continue to assist Solas, and if you have any questions about magic, I will help as much as I can. But this…” He gestured between them. “This... _tuathal_ will be over, if that is what you want.” 

She breathed hard through her nose as she stared at him. His face practically screamed _apology_ , and yet he stood there in silence, waiting for her to drop the axe. 

A breathtaking crush of pain squeezed her heart as she gazed into his gilded eyes. She’d been so foolish thinking she and Abelas could ever be anything more than a fling. What was she, a moon-eyed adolescent wishing for a happily ever after? This entire year had been a series of barely-averted disasters trailed by the parade of broken bodies that she hadn’t been able to save. How could she have thought this spark of a relationship would be any different?

What was it that Ameridan had said? _“Take moments of happiness where you find them. The world will take the rest.”_

An errant tear burned its way down her cheek, and she roughly wiped it away as she stared at him. She didn’t bother to ask what he wanted, for the answer was obvious: he was standing here in front of her. If he didn’t want her, he wouldn't have come. 

She also knew him well enough to know he would never admit to wanting her. He would consider such an admission to be the height of selfishness. 

In that moment, Athera made her choice. She strode toward the elvhen warrior and clasped his face in her hands, then kissed him hard. 

Immediately he wrapped his arms around her waist and pulled her flush to his body. His embrace was uninhibited and instantaneous, and in the tightness of that embrace, she knew she was right: he might never say so, but he wanted this as much as she did. 

She broke from his lips and pressed her forehead to his. “I get it,” she breathed. “You can’t stay forever. I hate it - gods above, I hate it _so much_ , but I understand.” She stroked his vallaslin tenderly with her thumbs. “I can’t let this end yet, Abelas. I just can’t. We only just started…” 

She broke off as a hideous lump of emotion swelled in her throat. With horror, she realized that she was a hairsbreadth away from bursting into tears, and she was violently thankful when Abelas distracted her with another kiss. 

Without breaking from her lips, he hastily pulled his gauntlets off and tossed them aside. His palms travelled from her hips up to cradle her shoulder blades, then one hand slid to her hair. He pulled the long pins from her bun, and the twisted ropes of her hair unspooled and cascaded down her back. 

Abelas twined his fist in her hair, and a sudden surge of lust drove the breath from her lungs and the sadness from her mind. He pulled gently at her hair, and Athera craned her head back, unable to quell her eager panting as his other hand rose to undo the clasps along the front of her shirt.

He lowered his face to her vulnerable neck, and Athera whimpered as he nuzzled her throat. With every clasp that came free, Abelas skimmed his nose lower along her exposed skin. By the time he was kneeling at her feet, her excitement was so acute that she felt light-headed. 

He gently parted the two halves of her shirt to expose her bare chest and belly, then tugged at her cuffs to pull off the shirt. Naked now from the waist up, she clenched her fingers tensely in the shoulders of his light armour.

He placed a light kiss just below her navel, and Athera gasped as a sudden flush of heat bloomed between her legs. “Oh help,” she squeaked. A single tiny kiss on her belly, and she was instantly so wet that it was rather embarrassing. “Abelas, I should tell you, it’s been a while since I… you know.” 

He lifted his face from her skin and raised one brow, and the look on his face was so incredulous that she instantly slapped her hands over her mouth in mortification. “Oh gods,” she blurted. “That was insensitive. I’m an ass. How… how long has it been for you?”

He rose to his feet and began pulling at the laces of her trousers. “One thousand and thirty-three years.” 

A hot prickle of embarrassment spilled from her scalp down to her chin, and she covered her heated cheeks with her hands. If she melted into a little puddle of awkwardness here and now, it would serve her right. “I am so sorry,” she gasped.

He finished loosening her laces, and she was instantly distracted by the touch of his fingers as he hooked them into the edge of her trousers and started peeling them down. “How long have you gone without?” he asked. 

His fingers were easing her trousers down below her bottom, and she swallowed hard as a fresh surge of lust suffused her throat and chest at the mere brushing of his thumbs against her skin. Her trousers pooled around her ankles, and she struggled to find her words. “Um. A year and a half,” she finally managed to say.

Abelas snorted with amusement, and a smile lit his face. 

Athera stared at him in wonder. This was the first time she had ever seen a smile on his solemn face. She reached up and cupped his cheeks in her hands as though she could capture his smile in her fingers.

He met her eyes, and his smile slowly faded as they gazed at each other in silence. A painful tenderness shone from his eyes, a mixture of joy and sorrow that matched the tender ache in her chest, and she swiftly rose to her tiptoes to kiss it away. Sadness and regret would come later, so much sadness that she was sure it would put the Well of Sorrows to shame, but she refused to dip into that pool right now. 

Abelas pulled her close in another tight embrace. His armour was cool against her naked skin, and Athera panted against his lips as she tugged at his chestplate, desperate to feel the heat of his skin. 

Abruptly he lifted her up, then walked over to the bed and lay her on her back. He stepped back and pushed back his hood, and she propped herself up on her elbows and watched with rising desperation as he removed his armour piece by piece. His pale skin was latticed with scars, a constellation of battles poured over his lean muscled frame, and Athera clenched her fingers at the thought of tracing the marks on his body. 

Finally, after what seemed far too long a time, he rolled his armoured leggings off. His rigid shaft rose proudly between his legs, and Athera hastily swallowed a rush of saliva as she admired the drop of desire glistening at the tip of his cock. 

He kneeled on the bed at her feet and smoothed his palms up her shins to her knees, but before he could slide her thighs apart, Athera pushed herself upright and onto her knees. His eyes widened with surprise as she shuffled toward him, and he leaned back on his hands as she kneeled between his legs. 

She traced her fingers over a strange astral scar across his left pec. With her other hand, she reached down and skimmed one finger along the length of his cock. “Can’t you heal your scars with magic?” she asked. 

He leaned his head back and closed his eyes as she spread the tiny drop of his moisture over the head of his manhood. “We can,” he said tightly. “But it is a waste - _ahh_ \- a waste of energy.” He broke off with a groan as she wrapped her fist around his girth and squeezed. 

She leaned closer and dropped a kiss on a slender line of puckered skin on his right collarbone, then on the star-shaped scar on his chest. Her lips drifted lower, across his sternum and over his lean abs, and she savoured the leaping tension of his muscles beneath her lips before taking his cock in her mouth. 

“Athera,” he moaned. He ran his fingers tenderly along her scalp as she took his length into her throat. “I fear I will not last if you continue this.”

She released his cock and smiled up at him. “That’s the point,” she said cheekily. “First a quick one, then we’ll go slow.” She swirled her tongue around the tip of his cock, then took him deep once more. 

He collapsed onto his back, his hips lifting in a slow and steady rhythm to meet the bobbing rhythm of her lips. Within a few minutes, his breaths came sharper, his thighs tensed beneath her palms, and the rigid shaft of his cock became even harder against the softness of her palate. 

She reached between his legs and palmed his balls. She enjoyed his jolting hips and his ecstatic moan, and a moment later he choked out a gasp and released his seed into her throat. Athera swallowed eagerly as his cock pulsed against her lips, then gently pulled away as his shuddering stilled. 

Abelas sat up on his elbows, and Athera barely had time to grin smugly at him before he surged forward and flipped her onto her back. He slid his fingers along her scalp and down to her nape, and she gasped as he fisted his hand in her hair and pulled her head back. 

He braised her throat with a series of nips and kisses, tiny bites interspersed with the sweet press of his lips as he slid down over her chest. She panted and arched toward him as his mouth drew close to her breast, then mewled with pleasure as he gently tugged her nipple with his lips before suckling the rosy peak into his mouth. 

He lightly brushed his open hand over the tip of her other breast as though savouring the feel of her pert nipple on his palm. He rolled her nipple carefully between his fingers, and Athera clenched her fingers in the sheets as she lifted her chest into his heated touch. His mouth and hands were slow and careful, almost reverent as he tasted and touched her skin.

He released her breasts and slid his hands down to grip her waist, and she watched with delirious pleasure as he lowered his face to the dip beneath her sternum. He closed his eyes and inhaled deeply as though scenting her skin, then pressed his lips to her belly. 

His thumbs lightly stroked the skin of her waist. He slowly brushed his parted lips over her ribs, then down into the dip of her navel. Heat and lust pulsed along the path of his trailing mouth, and soon her hips were bucking toward him of their own accord, a needy wordless beg for the heat of his mouth where she needed him the most. 

He obliged her by grasping her bucking hips, then briefly pressed his cheek against her belly and heaved a heavy sigh. But before Athera could pull her mind from the cloud of her maddening desire and ask him what was wrong, he slid his palms along her parted thighs and pressed his lips between her legs. 

An uncontrollable moan escaped her throat, and she threw her head back against the pillows and arched into his mouth. His tongue was smooth and sure, sliding through the heat of her arousal to stroke the swollen bud of her clit with the perfect degree of pressure, and an idle part of her mind wondered if the expert touch of his tongue was thanks to centuries of practice. 

Abelas smoothed his palms along her inner thighs as he lapped gently at her slick folds. Without moving his mouth from her pussy, he slid her knees over his shoulders and stroked his fingers gently across the tops of her thighs. His hands were soothing and gentle, a comforting caress that contrasted exquisitely with the rapture-inducing slide of his tongue between her legs, and Athera could feel the tension leaving her shoulders even as her inevitable climax began to rise. 

She stretched her arms languorously overhead and lifted her hips dreamily toward his mouth. Abelas hummed quietly against her flesh, a quiet but satisfied little sound. He tilted his head slightly and changed the pressure of his tongue against her taut nub, and Athera bit her tongue and twisted her fists into her pillow as the gradual rise of her pleasure suddenly accelerated at his change in technique. The pleasure was coming, rushing forward, higher, _oh gods-_

She hit the zenith of her climax with a mind-numbing burst, and a cry of rapture tore itself from her throat before she had the presence of mind to muffle it. Abelas squeezed her thighs, his tongue and lips still working in tandem over her pulsing heat, and she jerked involuntarily as his talented mouth drew her orgasm out until she could barely stand it. 

“Abelas!” she gasped. 

He lifted his face at the sound of her voice, then gently slid her knees from his shoulders and wiped his face on the back of his hand before crawling over her body to frame her between his forearms. 

He tenderly smoothed one hand along her hairline, and her delirious post-orgasm haze began to dissipate at the tragic affection in his face. The vallaslin on his forehead was creased with distress, and she clasped his neck firmly.

“Don’t,” she begged. She was trying so hard to ward off the pain, but she couldn’t do it if he kept looking at her like this. 

He dropped his forehead against her neck and sighed, and she shook her head vehemently and hooked her leg over his hip. “Don’t,” she said again. “Don’t think about it. Just think about this.” She reached between them and slid her fingers over the renewed hardness of his cock. 

He hissed in sharp breath against her neck. Encouraged, she massaged his shaft with her fingertips and slid her other hand along the side of his scalp and into the loops of his braid. 

Abelas moaned and tilted his head into her fingers like a mabari hoping for a scratch, and she curiously scraped her nails along the skin of his scalp. 

He gasped and jerked his hips into her fingers. A fresh roar of lust rushed through her chest and into her mind, wiping her brain blissfully blank, and she grabbed his braid in her fist and pulled. 

Abelas _snarled_ , and Athera cried out in rapture as he sheathed himself inside of her with a smooth, hard stroke. His cock was sheer bliss, stroking her sensitive flesh and drawing mewls of delight from her eager throat, and she tightened her leg around his hip and flexed eagerly into his thrust. His fingers tightened in her hair, and she wrapped her fist more securely in his braid, and suddenly all she could think about was gasping in enough air to enjoy the fast and steady press of his cock inside of her. 

Then Abelas slid her leg off of his hip and hooked her leg over his arm instead. He shifted higher and thrust into her again, and Athera keened with desperate ecstasy as the new angle of his cock struck that particular bundle of nerves in her inner walls.

Her nerveless fingers loosened in his hair as he rocked himself against her. Her climax was building again, and she bucked against him wildly, her every whimper a plea for him to bring her higher with the powerful pounding of his hips. At the moment that her rapture finally came upon her, Abelas gasped and groaned as well, his shoulders shuddering in climax as he tightened his fingers in the roots of her hair and kissed her hard. 

Athera grabbed his arms and thrust her tongue into his mouth. Stars were bursting behind her eyes, and her calves and toes twitched convulsively with the aftershocks of her pleasure. A long, ecstatic moment later, his lips and his fingers grew gentle, and the residual tension left her limbs with every delicate press of his lips.

He carefully drew back from their kiss and rested his damp forehead against her own. She caressed his biceps with her thumbs as they breathed together, their sweat melding and cooling with every passing heartbeat. 

Eventually the warm wellbeing of their joining began to fade. The darkness of their inevitable parting was overhead, held at bay but unbanished, and Athera finally forced herself to address it. “When will you leave?” she whispered. 

Abelas lifted himself onto his elbows and sighed. “I cannot say.” He traced the edge of her ear with his fingers. “I will stay until your enemy is laid low, at the very least. Beyond that…” 

He trailed off and bowed his head, and Athera swallowed hard. She tipped his chin up and gazed into his precious golden eyes. “Hey,” she said softly. “You’re here now. Let’s… just focus on that.” She gently brushed his sculpted lips with her thumb. “Will you spend every night with me until you go?” 

“It would be my honour,” Abelas said seriously, and despite the heaviness in her chest, she smiled. 

He tilted his face down for another kiss, and Athera met his lips without hesitation. _I’ll take the moments of happiness where I can get them,_ she thought.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elvhen vocabulary, thanks to FenxShiral’s resources:
> 
> \- Soun’hyn: strong wine. Elvhen quivalent to port.  
> \- Arulin’holm: a tool from the times of ancient Elvhenan. I understand it’s a plot item from DA2. I actually haven’t played that game yet, but FenxShiral’s lexicon describes the tool in helpful detail.  
> \- Diana mar avin: shut your mouth/shut up  
> \- Halam’shivanas: the sweet sacrifice of duty; to do one’s duty to the end.  
> \- Tuathal: joining, unification, linking


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: Smut. And sadness.

**Three days later…**

“Abelas.”

Solas’s voice was sharp as he strode into the rotunda. Abelas stood from the couch and watched in alarm as Solas placed his palms flat on the desk and bowed his head. 

“What is it? What has happened?” Abelas demanded. Solas was still, but his hands were trembling slightly, and an icy finger of dread traced down the back of Abelas’s spine at the thought of what catastrophe could have caused this slip in the rebel commander’s composure. 

Solas lifted his face, and his stark words belied the calm of his expression. “The orb is destroyed,” he said. 

Abelas stared at him in shock. Solas nodded once as though to confirm Abelas’s incredulity, then said, “Our plans will need to change. There is another way - I had hoped it would not come to this, but…” He sighed and ran a weary hand across his scalp, then made his way around the desk. “I must leave immediately. There is something I must do on my own. You will join me in the place we discussed, no later than two days’ time.” 

Through the haze of disbelief, Abelas found his tongue. “I - yes, of course.” 

Solas nodded sharply. Then his urgent manner faded slightly as he looked around at the elaborately painted walls. His gaze fell on the final blank fresco panel. “A shame,” he said softly. “She deserves a proper ending.” 

_Athera._ The full reality of the situation finally struck him, and Abelas drew in a slow, deep breath as he realized what this meant. To meet Solas in two days’ time, he would have to leave tomorrow morning. 

Three nights was all he’d spent with her. Three short nights together, and now… 

The injustice of it was like a rabid wolf’s claws at the back of his throat, but he forced himself to maintain a calm visage. He had no right to think such things were unfair; he had a responsibility to uphold, and he’d known this day would come. Unfortunately, the reality of his duties was a cold comfort compared to the heat of Athera’s embrace. 

Abelas swallowed hard, then managed a tiny smile. “You always did love your paintings,” he said. 

Solas turned to look at him, and the Dread Wolf’s gaze was so heavy with pity that Abelas had to look away. Solas reached out and grasped his shoulder tightly. “I am sorry, lethallin,” he said softly. “So very sorry. I did not wish this for you. For either of you,” he added. 

Abelas closed his eyes as Solas briefly touched his forehead to his own. Then Fen’Harel pulled away and headed for the door. “The others will return within the hour,” he said, and then he was gone. 

The silence in the rotunda was ringing and complete, and Abelas stood frozen with grief for a long moment. Then he made his way through the quiet castle and up to the Inquisitor’s quarters.

He walked over to the balcony and looked up at the afternoon sky. The Breach was sealed, with nothing remaining but a jagged scar of white light to remind the world of what had happened. 

_She succeeded,_ he thought. But he could find little joy in this. His anguish was too overwhelming for any other feeling to penetrate. 

From his spot on the balcony, he could clearly hear the sounds from the castle below: delighted squeals and shouts from the serving staff as the quickest of the messengers shared the news, and the busy but distinctive sounds of a fête being prepared. Eventually the celebratory noise ratcheted up, excited babbling and singing, and finally an enormous wave of applause and whistling and cheering that surely heralded the Inquisitor’s return to Tarasyl’an Te’las. 

Cheerful music floated up from the Great Hall along with the wash of conversation and singing and laughter, and Abelas stood passively as the sounds washed over him. The obvious cheer below was such a stark contrast with the despair in his gut, and he’d never felt quite as separate from this world as he did in this moment. 

But then, Abelas thought, he had never really been a part of this world at all. This mundane world was like a nightmare that he’d had no choice but to take part in. The only times he’d ever felt grounded here were the times he’d spent with Athera. She was part of a wonderful dream, the best and most vivid parts, and a weak and selfish corner of his mind wished he could remain hidden in this fantasy forever. 

He shook his head as though to shake the errant thoughts away. _That is not who I am,_ he scolded himself. _I am a servant of Mythal, and a servant to her people._ Without the orb of power, Fen’Harel would need his help now more than ever, and that was his rightful place: at the side of Mythal’s dearest friend. 

Abelas watched in stony silence as the afternoon sun faded into gloaming. The sounds of the party below became louder as the castle’s occupants became more unrestrained in their revelry. Abelas ignored it all as he waited. 

Eventually there was an increase in the volume of the cacophony below as the door of the Inquisitor’s quarters opened. The sounds faded slightly as the door closed, and Abelas straightened and turned as the soft sound of her booted footsteps ascended the stairs. 

Her cheeks were flushed and she was smiling, but the joy and colour faded from her lovely face as she met his eyes. 

She wrapped her arms defensively around her middle. “You’re leaving, aren’t you?” she asked. 

Abelas took a step toward her. His heart seemed to have swollen and lodged itself in his throat, and he couldn’t speak. 

Her silvery eyes somehow became even wider. “You’re going to join Solas,” she said slowly. “You’re friends, aren’t you? I don’t mean from now. I mean from… before.”

Abelas continued his slow and silent approach as Athera continued to talk. “He’s like you, isn’t he?” she accused, with a distinct edge to her voice. “He’s from Arlathan too. You knew each other before all of this, didn’t you?” 

Her face was twisted with betrayal, and he greedily drank in the sight of her: the storm of her ice-grey eyes, the tousled bundle of her shining chestnut hair with its loose tendrils sticking to her neck, the slender lines of her body as she hunched defensively into her folded arms. She was so beautiful and so rightfully angry, and still he couldn’t speak as he stepped closer. 

When he was within an arm’s reach of her, she suddenly reached out and shoved him in the chest. “What, are you just going to stand there?” she yelled. “Aren’t you going to say anything?”

She reached out to shove him again, but he captured her hands and pulled her close, then cupped her cheek in one hand. “I cannot,” he said desperately. “I cannot speak of this, vhenan. Do not ask me to.” 

Her face abruptly crumpled, and she gave a tiny sob. She curled into his body, and Abelas watched in agony as a tear rolled down her cheek. 

She clenched her jaw and closed her eyes. A long, painful moment later, she swallowed hard and looked up at him, her eyelashes glistening with grief. “When?” she said hoarsely. 

“Tomorrow,” he said. “Before dawn.” 

She sighed and closed her eyes again, and another tear tracked down her face. “Fuck,” she whispered. 

He carefully wiped her tears with his thumb. She was warm and pliant and pressed against his chest, her fingers clenched against his armour, and he waited with melancholy patience for her to speak again. 

Finally she opened her eyes, then took a step back. “Well, if this is all the time we’ve got, I refuse to waste it,” she said, and immediately began shedding her clothes. 

Her creamy skin appeared in slivers and slices as her clothing hit the ground, and Abelas’s hands automatically rose to remove his armour as well. Soon they were both naked, and Athera walked him back toward the bed with a firm hand on his abdomen. 

Her face was still tense with sadness, and he didn’t think he’d ever been less in the mood for sex, but his body seemed to have other ideas; as she pushed him back onto the bed and straddled him, his cock jerked eagerly, and an undeniable flush of heat suffused him as she settled herself over his groin.

But Athera didn’t take him inside of her. She didn’t even stroke her feminine heat over his length. She settled on his lap and slid her fingers along his scalp and into his hair, then pressed her forehead to his. “I just want to touch you,” she whispered. “Hold me, please? I just want to be close to you.” 

Her voice was soft and broken, her body a comforting weight across his lap, and Abelas wrapped his arms around her and buried his face in her neck. His eyes were burning, and he squeezed them shut as he pressed his cheek against her fragrant skin. 

She wrapped one arm around his shoulders and cradled his neck in her other hand. Her fingers caressed his scalp and tugged gently at his hair, and her touch was so agonizingly soothing that he almost couldn’t bear it. 

She drew back slightly and pressed her lips to his forehead, then to his temple. He slowly lifted his face from her neck, and her lips trailed their way gradually along his cheekbone.

She kissed the corner of his lips very lightly, and her face lingered against his own, her skin like a whisper of silk against his cheek. Abelas reached up and turned her chin toward him, then kissed her very gently on the lips. 

She kissed him back slowly, their lips meeting and parting in a delicate dance. Without drawing away from their dreamlike kiss, she shifted even closer on his lap until she was pressed firmly against his chest. Her palms slid across his back and his shoulders, her fingers stroking along his neck and into his hair, and her tongue traced the line of his lips with infinite care before sliding sweetly into his mouth. 

Abelas drank in her touch with all the desperate hunger of a starving wolf. This was the last time he would have this, the last time he would savour the heat of her hands and the gift of her tender heart. It was a privilege he had no right to enjoy, but he was damned already by accepting her boon. If a lifetime of torment was the price he had to pay to taste her sweetness this one last time, it was a price he would gladly pay. 

She cradled his jaw in her hands and deepened their kiss, and this time when she shifted her hips over his groin, the warmth of her arousal brushed across his cock.

His breath hitched at the slick feel of her heat, and he jerked involuntarily toward her. Her teeth pressed gently on his lower lip, and a fresh and distracting bolt of lust pierced through him and prompted him to clasp her hips in his hands. 

He broke from their kiss and gazed into her eyes. Her gaze was serious but no longer sad, and her silvery eyes were hot and heavy with intent. She coquettishly bit her lower lip, then sank her hips low and undulated against his cock.

The wavelike motion of her body spread her slick arousal along the length of his shaft, and he gasped with helpless desire. All at once Athera was rocking against him, her plump folds stroking over his length in a hot caress that drove his desire higher without satisfying it. Her grip was firm on his neck, and she took his lips in a crushing kiss. 

Their tongues tangled together as she rubbed herself wantonly against his cock, and Abelas couldn’t take the teasing any longer. He lifted her hips, then pulled her slick heat onto his length. 

Her nails bit into his shoulders, and she mewled with pleasure as he pressed into her inch by inch. Her tight heat squeezed his cock and stole his wits, and he could only groan mindlessly as she ground herself hard against his lap. 

He savoured the slow circling of her hips for a long, blissful moment, then carefully lifted and lowered her back down onto his cock. Every slow thrust rewarded him with the smooth and gorgeous heat of her, and the breathy sounds of her pleasure served only to cast fuel on his own smouldering desire.

His rapture was rising already, but he wasn’t ready yet. He wouldn’t be ready until she was. He leaned back slightly and gently placed his palm just below her ribs, then slid his hand up over the peak of her breast. 

She whimpered and arched into his palm, and he was momentarily distracted by the need to caress her nipple. Finally he recalled his purpose and gently pushed on her sternum. “Lean back,” he whispered. 

She opened her eyes and obeyed, leaning back slightly and bracing her weight on her hands. Abelas was snared by the heat of her molten silver gaze, unable to look away from her pleasure-flushed face as he angled his arm slightly and stroked his fingers through the damp chestnut curls between her legs. 

He pressed the tips of his fingers against her clit, and she gasped and shuddered with bliss. He wrapped his other arm around her waist for support as he gently petted her swollen little nub with his fingertips. 

Her breaths were short and sharp as she chased her pleasure, her hips rocking against his hand and his cock in tiny lustful thrusts, and he gritted his teeth with rising desperation at the tiny movements of her body. The circling of her hips was not an intentional tease, but the effect was the same, giving him a hint of the bliss that her thrusting would bring without quite fulfilling the promise. 

He breathed hard through his parted lips and focused on the slippery feel of her clit beneath his fingers, and when she suddenly scraped her nails across her belly, he knew she was his. 

She threw her head back and shuddered convulsively. “ _Ahh_ , please, now!” she wailed, and Abelas grabbed her hips and slammed his cock deep inside of her.

She released a shrill cry of ecstasy then furiously bucked against him, and he didn’t hesitate: he guided her hips against him in a fast and furious rhythm. 

Her fingers slid along his scalp and sank into his hair, and he groaned with pleasure as she tugged at his braid. He tilted his chin back to accommodate the pulling of her fist, and suddenly her teeth were at his throat, her tongue stroking the tendon in his neck as she rode him hard. 

Abelas leaned his weight back on one hand and gasped helplessly as she nipped his neck. He wasn’t in control anymore; Athera was the one in charge, her hips rolling against him hard and fast and dragging him towards his inexorable peak. 

A few more gasping breaths, a handful of pounding heartbeats, and Abelas came with a scintillating burst. He slid his fingers pleadingly into the messy bundle of her hair, and she clasped his neck in kind and kissed him hard, her tongue sleek and smooth in his mouth as she rode him to the end of his pleasure. 

He panted against her lips as his thrumming blood settled in his veins, then fell back against the pillows. Athera sprawled across his chest, a loose and languid weight, and he wrapped his arms tightly around her. Her skin was hot and slick from their exertions, her half-bound hair damp with sweat, and Abelas tenderly untangled the linen strips from the loops of her hair until it lay loose across her back. 

She pressed her cheek firmly against his chest and slid her arms beneath him in a hug. He concentrated hard on the scent of her hair and the smooth weight of her legs tangled with his own. This memory would be more bitter than sweet, a dark moment pricked with beads of pleasure like stars in the night sky, but it was a memory he couldn’t bear to forget. 

Suddenly Athera spoke, her voice soft and low. “Don’t let me sleep tonight,” she murmured. “I don’t want to waste this. Don’t let me fall asleep, okay?”

He brushed his knuckles along the edge of her cheek and the lobe of her ear. “This vigil is mine to bear,” he agreed. “I will keep you awake.” 

He felt her smile against his chest, then she lifted herself onto her elbows to smile down at him. “Hmm, I like the sound of that,” she purred. 

Her smile was genuine, but Abelas could barely see it beyond the heartache welling in her eyes. He stroked her cheek softly until her smile faded. She slowly shifted higher on his body, then settled down against him with her face pressed to his neck. 

The silence that fell between them was heavy and cloying, and he was grateful when she broke it. “I want to talk,” she murmured. “I just… don’t know what to say.” 

Her voice was tremulous, and Abelas clenched his teeth to hold back his own misery. He combed his fingers through her still and silent hair, then braced his own voice to keep it firm. “Tell me what your Inquisition will do now that the worst is over,” he suggested. “What will tomorrow bring?” 

She swallowed hard. “Um…” Her voice was thick with tears, and he continued to run his fingers through her hair as she mastered her trembling voice. “Um, I guess we’ll… start cleaning up. The war touched every place we’ve been to. We can start rebuilding now instead of always tearing things down. That’ll be a nice change.” 

He nodded and listened as she continued to talk, little stories of the places she’d been during her travels and the odd things her friends had said and done. Her talk was like placing a bandage on a hemorrhaging wound, a token effort to staunch the agonizing flow, but he was grateful nonetheless. 

Athera would talk, and Abelas would listen. They would clutch each other close in a tender and torrid flow of passion, and he would force himself to be satisfied with this shard of what could have been.

********************

He stared out across room at the greenish-grey of the predawn sky. It was too soon, far too soon, and yet he had no choice. 

Athera lounged back against his chest, her head tucked in the crook of his neck. Their limbs were tangled together, her fingers interlaced with his. He was loathe to break this spell, to bring down the wards of bliss around this bed, but he had no choice.

He took a deep and fortifying breath, but she spoke before he could say a word. “I know,” she murmured. “You don’t have to say it.”

He exhaled slowly. Then, even more slowly, he began to disentangle himself from her. 

She released him easily, her grip on his fingers becoming lax as she leaned forward to let him slip out from behind her. As he pulled his clothes back on, he wondered idly if his armour had ever felt so heavy.

Once dressed, he turned around to face her again, and she gazed back at him with tears dripping from her chin. 

He sat on the bed beside her and took her precious face in his hands. They stared at each other in silence, and Abelas fought to find the right words to say. Were there proper words for such an occasion? What could a man say when he was leaving his heart behind forever - a heart he’d never known was missing until a few short weeks ago? 

He bit the inside of his cheek, then finally he spoke. “The voices of the Vir’Abelasan,” he said. “When they are too loud for you… I will teach you the words to calm them.”

She sniffed hard and wiped her cheeks. “But I’m not a mage,” she said. 

“You carry the will of Mythal,” he explained. “That will be enough.” 

She wiped her eyes, then shrugged. “All right.” 

He slid closer to her, then eased her hair away from her ear and spoke the phrase quietly in her ear. “ _Mar’an melana enan ame dinem. Amen atisha. Ma’an din silaimast._ ”

He leaned back to look at her. Her eyes were closed, her brows contracted with distress and her lips pressed together hard as another tear slid down her cheek. 

“Can you say it?” he asked, and he couldn’t shave the tremor from his own voice this time. 

She sobbed suddenly, then covered her mouth and shook her head. “Say it one more time for me?” she begged. 

His throat was aching, a burning squeeze that made his jaw hurt, but he obliged her and repeated it twice more before Athera repeated it back in a perfect but broken voice. 

“Good,” he said softly. He stroked his fingers through her long dark hair. “I hope it will be of some comfort to you.” 

She laughed, a tiny wet sound that was more sarcasm than mirth, but Abelas couldn’t blame her. His words were paltry and clinical and nothing at all like how he felt. But the emotions that roiled in his chest were too strong and too binding to name, and it wouldn’t be fair to either of them to set them free. 

Solas was wrong, he realized. Being in love with Athera changed nothing. He was still bound to the same crushing duties. He was still beholden to the same responsibilities that had to take precedence over his own paltry concerns. The only thing that had changed was that he now knew what his life was missing. 

Her hands suddenly gripped the collar of his cloak, and he lifted his face in surprise to meet her eyes. “Listen, Abelas,” she said. “If you ever change your mind, if you… if you ever decide you want something just for yourself… come and find me, all right? Here in the real world, or in the Fade, or… whatever. Anything. If you decide to put this life behind you, come and find me.” 

He stared at her in despair as he stroked her cheek with his thumb. Her expression was fierce, but her eyes dripped with sympathy. Though he knew she was grieving, he also knew what she really wished: to free him from the choking bonds of his duty. 

_Ar lath ma,_ he thought desperately. _More than you can ever know._ He leaned forward and kissed her one last time, then loosened his fingers from her hair and stood. “Goodbye, vhenan,” he said. He turned toward the stairs and didn’t look back. 

The castle was silent and still in the wake of the night’s revelry. Abelas swiftly cast a fade cloak to hide himself from any early-morning staff as he traversed the Great Hall. He headed for the main gate of Tarasyl’an Te’las, desperate to escape this place as quickly as possible, but for some reason, his feet carried him toward the rotunda. 

He slowly stepped into Solas’s abandoned study and looked around at the murals. Evidence of Athera’s deeds were splashed across the walls in Solas’s steady hand, and suddenly Abelas was absolutely furious. Who was Fen’Harel to decide what was best? Who was he to talk of corruption and compassion? _He_ hadn’t woken every few decades to watch his fellow Sentinels dying one by one. _He_ wasn’t the one who stood here now, crippled under the weight of a love that served no purpose but to maim. 

His gaze fell upon the one blank panel on the wall. An abandoned piece of charcoal lay bereft on Solas’s desk, and Abelas picked it up. Slowly he made his way over to the wall, then began to draw. 

With every stroke of black, every slashing line, the rage poured through him and onto the untreated fresco. He gritted his teeth and scrawled with increasing fervour until the charcoal suddenly snapped in his hand. 

Abelas stopped short as the charcoal crumbled apart in his fingers. He was breathing hard, and his face was wet. He slowly stepped back to look at what he’d drawn.

It was a figure of a wolf, its head tilted low as though in supplication. Abelas wiped his face and stared at his sketch for a long moment. His anger was gone, dissolved as quickly as it had come, and a pang of guilt jolted his chest as he examined what he’d done. 

Finally he let the shards of charcoal drop to the floor, then turned and left the rotunda for good. Dawn was almost upon him, and Solas would be waiting. 

He couldn’t blame Solas for this, not really. Solas could not have known that Abelas would find the lover of his literal dreams in this deadened time and place. After all, Abelas was still shocked himself. 

And if his burdened heart was just that bit heavier now, it hardly mattered. He would add it to the mountainous pile of burdens he would bear until his end. 

***************

Athera stood on the northern battlements and stared dully at the mountains. The wind whipped and tossed her hair, and she leaned her head back into its pull, thankful that it was wind in her hair for once and not those damned Sentinel voices. 

Out of the corner of her eye, she watched as a short figure mounted the stairs, then sidled up beside her. She smiled faintly as Varric reached up and placed a cup of tea on the wall by her elbow. 

“So,” he said. “Chuckles is really gone, huh?” 

Athera nodded her head slowly. “Yup,” she said. “I’m going to miss his bald head. It was so good at reflecting light in those extra-dark caves.”

Varric snorted, then paused. “Gramps is gone too.” 

Athera swallowed hard, then nodded again. “Yup.” 

There was another long, pregnant pause before Varric spoke again. “Any chance those two events are… related?” 

“Oh, absolutely,” she said. “I would instantly die of shock if they weren’t.” 

“Wait,” Varric said slowly. “You don’t know for sure?” 

Athera finally looked down at her friend with a crooked half-smile. “Did I ever tell you that I have horrible taste in men?” she said. She chuckled, and a treacherous tear leaked down her face. She hastily wiped it away before speaking again. “I asked him outright if they knew each other from back in the day, and he said he couldn’t tell me.” She sighed and turned back to face the view. She couldn’t fault Abelas, really; he was just doing his duty and trying to help his people.

At least that was what she would continue to tell herself so she wouldn’t drown in bitterness. 

A sinuous, soft whisper ghosted through the back of her mind, and she exhaled with frustration. The voices weren’t that loud today, but her tolerance of them had plummeted. The only Sentinel voice she wanted to hear was the one she would probably never hear again.

She turned away from Varric and muttered the special phrase to make the voices go away. “ _Mar’an melana enan ame dinem. Amen atisha. Ma’an din silaimast._ ”

All of a sudden, the fickle voices finally deigned to translate the phrase for her, and the meaning of it bounced through her mind. _There was a time and place for you, but it is gone. Be calm. You are not forgotten._

A sudden spear of grief pierced her belly. “Oh gods,” she breathed. She knew the words weren’t meant for her, and yet…

She hid her face in her hands and squinched her face up to stop the tears, but it was too much. The fucking voices in her head, and the phrase’s double-meaning, and the memory of Abelas’s fingers in her hair, his honeyed words in her ear, his braid tangled in her fist and his tongue in her mouth…

All of it was too much. She sank down to the ground at Varric’s feet and sobbed, beyond caring now what he thought of her. She was a pathetic mess, and she didn’t care who saw. It was her own fault for falling for the dictionary definition of Duty with a capital D. 

Varric slowly sat beside her and squeezed her knee as she buried her face in her arms. When her bawling had finally died down to a few snotty hiccups, Varric reached up to the wall and pulled down the cup of tea he’d brought. “Hey,” he said gently. “I was thinking about writing a romance serial about this, but I don’t even think that the Seeker would read it. Too improbable. But I’ll tell you what I had in mind for titles, if you want.”

She messily wiped her face on her sleeve and took the tea from his hand. “Okay,” she sniffled.

“First one I had was ‘This Shit Is Weird: A Love Story.’ What do you think?” 

She snorted a wet little laugh. “Sucks. Unoriginal.”

Varric shrugged. “True. All right, I was also thinking ‘How To Train Your Curmudgeon: A Handy Guide on Geriatric Relationships.’ It’s cumbersome, I know, but-” 

Athera shoved him in the arm. “Gods, that’s even worse. How are you so famous?”

“Ouch. Okay, fine, I’ll work on it. But let’s get you off the battlements in the meantime. It’s freezing cold up here.” He raised his eyebrows persuasively. “Wanna go do something fun? Wanna go fight a giant?”

She finally grinned and punched Varric in the shoulder. “You have the worst ideas. Why did I let you join my Inquisition again?”

He pushed himself to his feet and bowed mockingly. “Entertainment value, of course. Come on, Krem and the boys have some kind of celebration prank planned for Tiny. He knows all about it, of course, but you don’t want to miss how they’ll react.”

Athera let him help her to her feet, then followed him down the stairs as he chatted about the other celebratory goings-on around the castle. Her chest still ached with every fleeting thought of Abelas, and she suspected it would be a long time before that pain would ease, if it ever did. 

But Ameridan’s words rang true in her mind. She would take these moments of happiness while she could. She was luckier than Ameridan, after all; at least she and Abelas were both alive. 

_And who knows,_ she thought. _Maybe after he finds his people…_ She forced herself not to finish the thought. It was a vain hope, she knew, and a stupid one besides; Abelas would never abandon his people, and certainly not for something so selfish as love. 

_But maybe,_ her treacherous brain piped up. _Maybe he’ll fulfill his duty, and his people will be fine without him, and he’ll want to come back._

Well, if those circumstances ever came to pass, her ancient elvhen lover had magic at his fingertips, and she had the Fade within her reach at night. With magic, anything was possible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dedicated to Baeria, who casually requested some Abelas smut and prompted the writing of this 6-chapter angsty beast. Lots of love to you, and also I'm sorry it ended up being all sad and shit TT^TT 
> 
> For anyone who read along: thank you for coming along for this ride! I hope you enjoyed it despite the angst...? :(
> 
> I write other DA:I ships as well, if you're looking for something a little happier. All different Lavellans (I dunno, I'm an elfy kind of girl).  
> \- Blackwall/Lavellan is [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1010943)  
> \- Cole/Lavellan is [here.](https://archiveofourown.org/works/15217193/chapters/35293799)  
> \- Solavellan is [here](https://archiveofourown.org/series/994440), but some of these are sad. The tags will say which ones. 
> 
> And if you want to swing by and say hi, I'm [Pikapeppa on Tumblr!](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/)


	7. Author's Note

A quick note to anyone who has subscribed to this story:

A few readers had requested a post-Trespasser sequel. I initially wasn't going to write one, but a lovely reader gave me the exact prompt I needed, and so the sequel now exists. You can read it here [(Don't Wake Me Up).](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16132520)

There are also [a handful of oneshots](https://archiveofourown.org/series/1115607) that accompany this fic, if anyone wants more of these two. 

\- Love, from [Your Friendly Neighbourhood Pikapeppa xoxo](https://pikapeppa.tumblr.com/)


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